


Golden

by fragilelittleteacup



Series: The Sheriff and His Phoenix [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Bisexuality, Brief Graphic Descriptions of Gore, Confusion, Dementia, Dependency, Good Movie, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Panic Attacks, Regeneration, Supernatural Bonds, Temporary Character Death, cool headcanon phoenix stuff, phoenix!parrish, some of my headcanon about Parrish's backstory is based on War Pigs, stiles breaks my heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-16
Updated: 2016-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-27 04:23:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 28,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6269530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fragilelittleteacup/pseuds/fragilelittleteacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles gets dementia again- for real, this time.<br/>Parrish can heal him, but will he survive doing so, or will he lose his mind?</p><p>(Set at the start of season 5, completely independent of any events that happen after that point)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

SCOTT MCCALL

 

Scott knew he definitely was not a normal young man.

Glowing red eyes and supernaturally sharp teeth and claws aside, he was probably one of the few people his age who enjoyed tedious tasks. Right now, he was spending his Sunday restocking the Animal Clinic, taking supplies off the truck and carrying boxes into the storage room- granted, his enhanced strength probably helped, but he enjoyed it regardless. The violence and secrecy of the world he lived in meant that every peaceful second was a gift.

Deaton had been helping him restock, but Scott had insisted he do it himself. He wanted to dull his responsibilities with menial labour for as long as possible.

Conversation was relaxed- there was no threat, nothing to fight, no new monster to be terrifed by. Scott had taken Stiles’ word for it and decided not to trust Theo- which had meant Theo’s true agenda had been revealed quickly, and the pack had managed to shut down the Dread Doctors’ operation before they could start decimating Beacon Hills more than it already had been.

But now Deaton was frowning at his computer screen, forehead set in deep creases. Scott wasn’t sure whether he was worried or just concentrating. He busied himself with sorting through the medicines cupboard, lining everything up by type and date, figuring that Deaton would speak up eventually if he wanted to. The vet’s heart rate was calm, so Scott wasn’t too worried.

Eventually, Deaton slowly said, “…Scott?”

Scott looked up from the bottle of tranquilizer in his hand. “Yeah?”

“As I recall, you had a friend who was unaware what species of supernatural creature they were. He was a Deputy, I believe. Orange eyes, super strength, accelerated healing?”

“Deputy Jordan Parrish, yeah.” Scott stood, placing the tranquilizer down on the metal bench. “Why?”

“He wasn’t immune to fire and being burned, was he?”

Scott frowned. “…Yeah, actually. Another Deputy at the station tried to burn him alive to claim the reward from the dead pool.”

“And he emerged entirely unharmed?”

“Yeah. Even Derek had no idea what he was.” Scott paused. “All his clothes were burned off and everything.”

Deaton nodded to himself, smiling. Scott had seen that expression on his face before; Deaton had a passion for knowledge that few could rival, and he loved discovering new things. Scott always thought he should’ve been a teacher.

“I think I know what he is.”

Scott raised his eyebrows, impressed. They’d been unable to find any information in the Beastiary. “What?”

“A very rare type of creature.” Deaton opened a picture; it was a bird, wings arched magnificently, beak wide open, fire surrounding it in a bright halo. “A Phoenix.”

Scott blinked. “I… didn’t even know they existed.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. They’re so rare that only a handful are born every century, and they can’t be created from a bite or a scratch.”

“So how’d you find out what he is?”

“I have contacts throughout Beacon County- it turns out there is one other Phoenix in the area.” Deaton opened another picture; a woman, surrounded by flames, similar to the bird in the other picture. She had glowing orange eyes, just like Parrish- but the key difference was the pair of wings, enormous and on fire, stretching from her back. “Her name is Lillian White.”

“She looks… _powerful._ _”_

Deaton hummed, fascination clear on his face. “Yes. Truly magnificent creatures, aren’t they?”

“How’d you find her?”

“I didn’t. She found me.”

Scott frowned.

“Phoenixes can sense each other’s presences, even from great distances. Even though she lives in another part of Beacon County, she could feel Deputy Parrish’s power. I’ve had dealings with her pack before; she knew I was an approachable member of the supernatural community in Beacon Hills, so she contacted me with the information.”

Scott nodded. He was glad this had happened- he couldn’t imagine how Parrish must’ve felt, knowing he wasn’t human, but not knowing exactly what he was. Parrish had insisted to Lydia- who had tried to help him by searching through the Beastiary- that he didn’t mind not knowing, but Scott was sure he’d been lying. Turning into a werewolf had been hard enough, let alone turning into _something_ without any kind of guidance.

“Great! So she can teach him to use his powers, then!”

“No.”

Scott’s face fell in disappointment. “No?”

“Like I said before, Phoenixes are very rare, and very valuable. She isn’t willing to leave her pack because there’s a possibility she’d be abducted by another pack if she did.”

“Abducted? Why?”

“Phoenixes have the very unique ability to heal people. They can absorb injuries from both humans and supernaturals, which is quite a skill to have in battle. Many supernatural creatures hold Phoenixes captive and force them to heal others, whether they’re willing or not- and often at great detriment to the Phoenixes own health.”

“That’s awful.” The only time Scott had ever seen someone heal another person was when Derek had healed his sister, Kora- and that had weakened him so much that he turned from Alpha to Beta. Imagining a creature strong enough to heal all the time was dumbfounding. “But absorbing injuries… wouldn’t that kill them, eventually?”

Deaton shook his head. “When they heal others, they can then heal themselves at a rate faster than even werewolves.”

“Wow.”

“And they can’t be permanently killed.”

 _“Wow_ _._ _”_ Scott’s mind was spinning with the possibilities. Having a Phoenix in his pack could prevent so much pain- and maybe they’d never lose anyone again, like they lost Allison. He paused, wondering if he was being selfish. He decided that joining the pack had to be Parrish’s decision.

“Apparently, seeing a Phoenix rise from the ashes- quite literally- is a spectacular sight.”

“And they actually have wings, or is it just the shape of the fire?”

“They do actually have wings.”

“Can they _fly?_ _”_

“I would assume so, yes.”

“…Can he actually turn into a bird, or…?”

“No, Scott.”

“Okay. Still, that’s… That’s amazing.” Scott really did hope Parrish would choose the join the pack. “Wait- if this other Phoenix won’t teach Parrish how to use his powers, how will he learn?”

Deaton shrugged. “She’s told me quite a deal about their abilities. I think I could teach him.”

Scott didn’t doubt it. Deaton had done more difficult things and been successful.

“I’d advise you don’t tell him about this yet. We could be wrong about what he is- though I doubt it, at this point- and I want to read through what I’ve been sent more thoroughly before we approach him. Do we have an agreement?”

Scott nodded. “Definitely.”

 

 

 

STILES STILINSKI

 

Stiles wasn’t just afraid. He was terrified.

Keeping up an act around werewolves was exhausting, and very, very hard. Especially when Malia lay behind him at night, hands on his chest- he was sure she could feel his heart racing, sickly sweet fear pumping through his veins, brain working overtime. Maybe she just assumed it was anxiety- fretfulness wasn’t exactly an unusual part of his personality. Maybe she assumed it was just about finishing school, going off to college, worrying about losing his friends- and she wasn’t entirely incorrect. He was worried about losing his friends. But he was also worried about losing his dad, losing his sanity, and losing his dignity. He knew he wouldn’t make it to college. He knew, and his dad knew.

He just didn’t know how to tell his friends.

Everyone was in such a good place- even Liam, the sulky little junior that he was, had lightened up after Theo had been defeated. They were all doing well in school. They were all content to live like normal teenagers- studying, staying up late, playing video games, stressing about finals.

But Stiles wasn’t.

He felt like the dementia was crawling beneath his skin, a living, breathing monster that whispered in his ear like the Nogistune had. _You_ _’re_ _going_ _to_ _die,_ _Stiles_ _._ _You’re_ _going_ _to_ _die,_ _and_ _your_ _dad’s_ _going_ _to_ _have_ _to_ _live_ _in_ _your_ _empty_ _house_ _after_ _your_ _funeral_ _._ _He’s_ _going_ _to_ _have_ _to_ _care_ _for_ _you_ _as_ _you_ _loose_ _your_ _dignity_ _, your pride, your memories- and finally, your mind._

He couldn’t take it.

So, this fine sunny morning, the effects of night terrors weighing him down, Stiles shouldered his bag, summoned his strength, and walked to his locker. Today was the day. He’d tell Scott, and then he’d tell everyone else. This morning would be the last time anyone looked at him normally. From now on, he would be the dying boy. Poor Stiles with his mother’s brain disease. Poor Sheriff Stilinski who would soon have no family left. Nothing would be the same again.

He walked to his locker- and there he was. Scott. With a wide grin, and delight on his face. The perpetually peppy Scott damn McCall.

“Deaton told me something yesterday,” he began, excited, and Stiles couldn’t do it. He couldn’t interrupt him, couldn’t burst his bubble of happiness.

So he let Scott talk.

And, as Scott elaborately described his conversation with Deaton, Stiles went still. Parrish was a Phoenix. Parrish could heal people. Parrish- who Stiles had known for a long time, just like he knew everyone at the station- was his last chance. He started to shake.

 _I don_ _’t_ _have_ _to_ _die_ _._ _I_ _don’t_ _have_ _to_ _die_ _._

“…Stiles?”

 _I don_ _’t_ _have_ _to_ _die_ _._

“Stiles, your heart’s beating like a hammer.” Scott put a hand on his shoulder, and Stiles leaned into it, feeling like he could collapse. His head was spinning.

 _I don_ _’t_ _have_ _to_ _die_ _like_ _she_ _did_ _._

“Stiles, you’re freaking me out here. Stiles?” Scott’s voice became urgent with worry. “Stiles, what’s wrong?”

“The dementia’s back. For real, this time.” The words burst out of his mouth, shocking him, leaving him staring into his locker.

Scott didn’t reply.

Stiles looked up into his horrified eyes, and felt some kind of sick relief; at least now someone else felt as bad as he did. “Do you think Parrish could… Do you think he could save me?”

Scott stared, for a very long moment, before nodding slowly. “We’ll find a way.”

Not a guarantee. But hope, small and warm, nestled itself in Stiles’ stomach, and he smiled genuinely for the first time in weeks.

Scott looked as terrified as Stiles felt.

 

Stiles told everyone at lunchtime. It was like making some kind of announcement, and the surreal experience made Stiles want to laugh. _Hey, everyone, I_ _’m_ _dying_ _._ _Hope_ _that_ _doesn’t_ _ruin_ _your_ _day_ _!_

Lydia hugged him. Malia got angry, because he didn’t tell her before, but she held his hand hard, and he knew she’d fight off the dementia herself if she could. Liam looked desperately upset, in a way only the young managed to do. Kira said, “I’m so sorry”, and he smiled flatly, because at least when he was dead he wouldn’t have to hear people say that over and over.

“There’s a way we can save Stiles,” Scott said, determined. He was a leader, through and through, and Stiles almost believed they would win, they would beat this, just from the tone of his voice.

“How?” Lydia demanded, short and sharp.

“Parrish. He can heal people.”

“Well, then, let’s go.” Malia stood.

“No,” Scott held up a hand. “He needs to talk to Deaton first, so that Deaton can show him what to do.”

“I’m sorry, did I miss something, or have you discovered what Parrish is?” Worry made Lydia’s tongue crueller, sharper. Stiles had always liked that about her. It was endearing.

“He’s a Phoenix.” Scott said. “I found out yesterday, when Deaton told me. I was going to tell all of you today anyway, but…”

An uncomfortable silence fell.

The discomfort lasted all day. Stiles almost wished he hadn’t said anything at all.

 

***

 

That night, Deaton met them at the school. They got in his car, and started driving to the police station. Scott called Melissa and told her what was happening. Stiles was glad he didn’t have to see her face as she found out.

The car was clean, and smelled new. Stiles had always wondered what kind of a guy Deaton was, and the suspiciously perfect car sort of perpetuated his curiosity. Or maybe he was just paranoid.

It wouldn’t be unusual, given his situation.

On the way there, he fidgeted. Biting his thumbs, tapping on his leg, clenching his jaw, chewing his tongue. Deaton, who was driving, glanced over at him a few times, concerned.

“Everything alright, Stiles?”

Stiles laughed. Sure. Everything was just peachy. His laugh was hysterical, high pitched, and insane.

“Everything’s going to be fine, Stiles.”

“…You really believe- You really think that, that Parrish can fix me?”

“I know he can. Phoenixes are very powerful beings.”

“Yeah.” Stiles had to fight to keep his voice steady. “Yeah, Scott said.”

Scott, in the back seat, leaned forward. “It’ll be okay, Stiles. We’ll figure this out.”

“I know, I just… I can’t believe what I’m about to ask Parrish to do.”

“He’ll heal.”

“I know, I know. But…” He clenched and unclenched his hands, breathed deeply. “…I know what it’s like, with this… this dementia, and I don’t want to, I don’t want do this to him. I don’t want him to feel like he has to do this for me.”

Quietly, Deaton said, “You know what the alternative is.”

Stiles did. But that didn’t make it any easier.

No one talked for the rest of the drive. When they pulled up to the station, Stiles felt like he was going to be vomit. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t ask someone to give up their sanity for him, and surrender to a degenerative brain disease. He couldn’t ask someone else to wake up at night screaming, to forget where they were, to be terrified, just so he didn’t have to. He couldn’t be that selfish. He leaned against the side of the car. He couldn’t breathe.

“It’ll be alright.” Scott gripped his shoulders, and Stiles felt like he was spinning. “Stiles?”

“I can’t do this.”

“You can.” Scott insisted, eyebrows drawn together. “Stiles, you can do this.”

Stiles shook his head. “No. No, I can’t Scott, I- oh god, I can’t-”

“Come on.” Scott turned him around, to face the station. “Come on. I’m right behind you, okay?”

Not okay. Not okay at all.

But Stiles let Scott guide him forward, because there was nothing else he could do.

 

 

 

DEPUTY JORDAN PARRISH

 

Parrish enjoyed paperwork.

It was weird, he knew that, and most of his fellow Deputies thought he was a wackjob for liking what every other policeman considered to be the worst, and most boring, part of the job. But the truth was, Parrish liked this town. He was content here. He knew it was probably because he’d been drawn here, but he didn’t mind. He was happy not knowing what he was, because this was a place that finally felt like home.

So a bit of paperwork hardly mattered to him.

Just as he was finishing up his last report, he looked up and saw Stiles and Scott, and another man, approaching his desk. Which immediately had his guard up; those two kids were at the centre of every nearly apocalyptic thing in this town, and an expected visit from both of them at the station generally meant trouble. He actually found himself shocked whenever they turned up just to say hi.

“Everything okay, guys?” He asked, thumbs hooked into his belt. He guessed the answer was no, judging from Stiles’ pale face and worried expression.

“Can you come into dad’s office for a sec?” Stiles’ voice was scratchy, uneven.

Parrish stood, alarmed by how weak Stiles appeared, and sounded. One look at Scott’s face confirmed he felt the same way. The man with them- who Parrish vaguely remembered was some kind of supernatural expert- also had an expression set hard with worry. “What’s wrong?”

“We’ll tell you in there.” Stiles gestured at the office, and Parrish stepped out from behind his desk.

When they walked in, the Sheriff looked up- confusion was evident on his face. It was clear he hadn’t expected them to come. Parrish was growing more and more wary by the second.

The Sheriff stood, and slowly asked, “What’s going on?”

Stiles looked at his feet. “They know, dad.”

The mood in the room immediately sobered, and Parrish saw an expression on the Sheriff’s face that looked like nothing other than mourning. He looked around, but everyone else had the same look on their face; he was the odd one out.

“…Know what?” He asked, hesitantly, feeling like an idiot.

“I’ve got dementia. Just like mom did.”

Parrish didn’t know what to say. He looked at Stiles, at this young man with his whole life ahead of him- and he thought how unfair it was. Then he looked at the Sheriff and saw the grief in his eyes, and he knew this was wrong. This couldn’t happen to two better people. And they’d already been through it once.

“…I’m so sorry, Stiles.”

Stiles nodded. Parrish guessed he must’ve been sick of hearing that.

“Deputy Parrish, isn’t it?” The man asked.

Parrish nodded. “Yes, sir.” He wasn’t sure why he chose to call him that. He just sensed an authority about him. “And you are?”

“Dr. Deaton.” The man stepped forward, and Parrish resisted the urge to step back. “This might sound impossible, Deputy Parrish, but you can save Stiles. You can cure his dementia.”

Parrish stared at him, trying to figure out whether he was serious. Apparently, he was.

“…How?”

 

 

“…A Phoenix.” Parrish said slowly.

“Yes.” Deaton replied patiently.

Parrish nodded slowly, as if he had a grasp on the situation. He didn’t. Learning what he was- that was one thing. Learning that Stiles’ entire future was in his hands? That was another thing entirely, and he wasn’t quite sure how to deal with it.

“And I can heal people?”

“You can. I’ll teach you.”

He looked down at his hands. They were all seated around the Sheriff’s desk, and everyone was looking to him. It was a pressure he was used to; in the army, he’d disarmed bombs with entire crowds of people watching him, both military and civilian. He knew what this kind of responsibility felt like.

“…I want to do this. But the dementia… won’t it kill me?” He looked up at Deaton and saw a man who would not lie to him. That, at least, was reassuring.

“Yes. It will.” Deaton’s voice was calm. “But you’re a Phoenix; you will rise from the ashes.”

“Literally?” The Sheriff asked, stunned. He’d been watching the conversation with disbelieving eyes. Parrish could imagine how surreal it must feel; that his son’s fatal illness could be cured, and they were sitting here casually discussing it.

“Literally, yes.” Deaton nodded.

“I’m sorry I’m asking you to do this. If there was any other way…” Stiles said, suddenly, loudly. He was a pale heap of nervousness, chewing his bottom lip, looking at Parrish with desperate eyes. Parrish felt his heart constrict as he saw the fear in that young face. He forced a smile onto his face.

“Come on, Stiles- how many times have you and your friends saved this town? If anything I _owe_ you.”

Stiles blinked, and then smiled back. Scott chuckled.

Deaton nodded briskly. “I propose we do this tonight.”

The suddenness of it all hit Parrish like a truck, but he took it in stead, trying not to think about what he was signing up for. “Where?”

“Your house. When you wake up after healing Stiles, and taking the dementia, you’ll be very confused. It’s best that you’re somewhere you’re familiar with.”

 _Well,_ Parrish thought, _that’s terrifying._

“That brings me to another point,” Deaton continued, “Someone will have to look after Deputy Parrish for the duration of the dementia.”

“I’ll do it.” Scott said, but the Sheriff shook his head.

“No. No, I’ll do it.”

Parrish looked at the Sheriff, but his gaze was not met. Parrish wasn’t insulted. Everything was moving very fast- he couldn’t imagine how the Sheriff felt, having come to terms with his son’s imminent death, and now learning that he could be saved after all.

Parrish was just glad he could save the Sheriff from having to suffer losing another of his loved ones. The Sheriff mattered to him- and he’d never have admitted it aloud, but Sheriff Stilinski was exactly his type. He was, without a doubt, into women, but there was something about an older man taking care of him that appealed to him beyond understanding.

He cleared his throat and looked back down at his hands.

Deaton, seeing the awkward exchange but choosing not to comment on it, continued speaking; “According to my contact, the effects of brain injuries accelerate when a Phoenix takes it from someone else. It’s battle logic; so that the Phoenix can return to the fight and continue healing their pack. So it won’t last long. A few days at most.”

Parrish nodded. _A Phoenix._ He reckoned he preferred not knowing what he was. Putting a name to it made him feel like he was in a science fiction film. Then again- who was he kidding? He was sitting in a room with a _werewolf._

Someone knocked on the door to the Sheriff’s office. Parrish looked over his shoulder and saw Deputy Sanchez, looking very intrigued by the gathering in the office.

“I guess we should let you get back to work, Sheriff.”


	2. Chapter 2

SHERIFF JOHN STILINSKI

 

It was a good thing he could compartmentalise.

The conversation in his office had left him reeling. And now he was sitting here, doing the day’s work, functioning normally, working just like everyone else - how could he just pretend everything was normal, when he’d just been told his son’s life had been saved? He wanted to jump in the air, cry with relief, scream with happiness. His hands shook as he read reports. His breath was uneven.

He could see Parrish at his desk, through the windows of the office. The Sheriff stared at the back of his head for minutes at a time, feeling as if he were in some kind of play, an act, something unreal. Parrish had just agreed to give his life for Stiles’. Even if there was some kind of supernatural safety net, the fact still stood; Parrish was prepared to _die_ for Stiles.

The Sheriff didn’t know how to deal with that.

But he’d been pretending, for weeks now, that Stiles hadn’t been dying. He’d had practice at playing normal.

So he kept doing his job.

Eventually, seven o’clock rolled around. The station emptied, and the Sheriff- who had actually become fixated on going over reports- was distracted by a knock on his door.

He looked up, and Parrish was standing there, smiling. “Time to go, Sheriff.”

The Sheriff’s heart skipped a beat. How was he supposed to act around his son’s saviour? Anything less than falling at his feet seemed to be an insult.

He packed up his things as Parrish packed up his, as if it were a normal night. Parrish often stayed late. They’d even had dinner together once or twice, owing to the fact that Parrish lived alone and the Sheriff often went home to an empty house. They were, contrary to the Sheriff’s opinions about professional relations, friends. Now, what were they? The Sheriff knew he’d always be in Parrish’s debt.

He walked out of the office. Parrish was waiting, bag slung over his shoulder.

The Sheriff met his eyes, and didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to say. He wanted to pull Parrish into a hug, squeeze the life out of him, try and make him understand the depth of gratitude that he felt.

But the Sheriff held out his hand, instead- a handshake. A depersonalized business greeting. Nowhere near good enough, but it was all he could manage. His mouth was dry.

Parrish seemed to understand. He smiled warmly, and shook his hand.

“He’s a good kid, Sheriff. And you’re a good father.”

The Sheriff nodded. _Thank you,_ he wanted to say, _you’re saving my boy. You’re fixing everything. Do you understand how much you’re doing for me? Thank you. Thank you._

But he didn’t. Couldn’t.

He got the feeling Parrish heard him anyway.

 

The drive to Parrish’s house, following Parrish’s old black Chevy, was filled with persistent, loud anxiety. He gripped the steering wheel hard, hard enough that the plastic squeaked and the skin over his knuckles was stretched white with tension. The silence got to him, so he turned the radio on, but all it did was annoy him. He turned it off again. His chest was tight with breaths that didn’t fill his lungs properly, and he felt light-headed.

Parrish was a good man. Parrish had come to the station with glowing recommendations from the army, from his previous station, from all the employers that had ever been lucky enough to have him. The Sheriff remembered exactly what he’d thought, the second Parrish had sat down at his desk; _I wonder how long it’ll be before Beacon Hills kills him._

He also remembered what he’d thought immediately afterwards, as Parrish walked out. His eyes had travelled down his broad shoulders, his back, to the curve of his ass. It was shocking, out of nowhere, and completely unprofessional. He’d shaken it off, but not without a persistent feeling of guilt in his gut. He couldn’t do this. He couldn’t feel this way. His wife might’ve died, but he still loved her. He couldn’t betray her like that.

Parrish had worked hard, harder than any other deputy, and the Sheriff trusted him. Even now, after the incident with the noise complaint, when he’d stood in the morgue, pointing a gun at him, waiting to see whether he’d transform into some monster. But Parrish’s eyes had turned back to hazel. The blood on his chest had dried to a crust, and the Sheriff remembered looking at him, for a brief moment, before dropping his gaze to the floor as he holstered his gun.

He remembered carrying him to his car. Glancing back at him, worried, as he drove. He’d known, his fear of Parrish’s unknown abilities aside, that he didn’t want Parrish to die. He didn’t want Parrish to be hurt.

Parrish was a good man.

And now he was going to be hurt- hurt worse than he’d ever been hurt before. He would go mad. He could lose every piece of his sanity until there was nothing left. This young, beautiful man, would go insane for Stiles.

The Sheriff didn’t want Parrish to suffer like that.

But what choice did he have?

 

 

 

DEPUTY JORDAN PARRISH

 

When he arrived home, the Sheriff following him in his car, there was a crowd of strangers gathered on his doorstep. Even the surly kid that was always following Scott around. He wasn’t sure he wanted them there, but he supposed he should get used to it- from what Deaton had said, he’d need this pack once he was a fully realised Phoenix.

 _That’ll be weird,_ he thought as he got out of his car, _taking orders from a teenage boy who’s still in school._

As he approached the front door, he tried not be freaked out by the awed stares. He didn’t know what he was doing; it should’ve been Deaton they were all staring at. Parrish wouldn’t have a clue what to do without him.

Lydia met his eyes as he neared, and she smiled. They’d had a brief… _thing._ She’d been too young for him, and he’d told her as much. She had been upset, but not insulted; he’d made it abundantly clear that she was perfect in every other way, but he didn’t expect her to wait around until she was old enough for him to feel comfortable dating her. He figured tonight would erase any lingering hurt she had about his rejection of her.

“Sorry about the mess,” he said as he unlocked his door and let them all in, though his house was pretty clean. It always was. Just how he liked to live. He stepped aside to let Stiles come inside first, who was leaning heavily against his dad and Scott.

“I recommend you go and lie down on your bed, Deputy.” Deaton suggested, as he pulled off his scarf. “You’ll be quite weakened after you heal Stiles. Wouldn’t want you collapsing on the floor.”

 _That’s reassuring,_ Parrish thought, torn between amusement and worry. He went to his bedroom, took off his jacket and vest, and lay down. He had a pretty sizeable bedroom, but it felt very small when everyone crowded in after him- it was beyond weird, having an audience this large, especially when he had no idea what he was doing.

“Sit down, Stiles.” Deaton pulled the chair out from under Parrish’s desk and put it beside the bed. Stiles sat, both Scott and the Sheriff supporting him as he did. Parrish realised he’d be like that soon. Frail. Weakened.

But it would be worth it. For Stiles. For the Sheriff.

“Close your eyes, Deputy.”

Parrish did.

“Stiles, take his hand.”

Parrish felt Stiles’ hand slip into his, as Deaton quietly told everyone else, “none of you talk to him until this is over. Just me.”

Silence fell. Parrish could hear people breathing.

“Parrish,” Deaton said, slowly, “I want you to focus on my voice. Just my voice. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” Deaton paused. Listening to him was very calming. He paused, frequently, the rise and fall of his voice a low, steady plateau. “I want you to concentrate on the heat you feel in your veins. In your muscles. Running through your body. Do you feel it?”

Parrish did. He’d felt ever since Haigh had set him on fire, and he’d walked back into the station, covered in ash, but more _alive_ than he’d ever been before. Something had changed that night. Energy pumped steadily through him, a liquid power, seeping into every inch of him, imbuing his body with a strength he couldn’t name, a power he didn’t understand. At night he’d lie awake, just feeling it, wondering what he was becoming. But he’d never feared it. It felt _good._ Like all the guns and bullets and bombs in the world couldn’t take away that strength inside him. He felt invincible. Protected.

“Yes.” He said, quietly. His eyes were closed but he knew, somehow, that they weren’t hazel any more. They were orange. As bright and pure as the rays of sun that gave the earth life, and just as destructive. There was fire in him.

“I want you to give in to that. Let it take you over.”

It wasn’t hard. Parrish had been aching to give in to it.

He heard gasps, distant cries of shock, felt Stiles’ hand flinch in fear. But those things didn’t matter to him.

“He’s on _fire,_ ” someone whispered, but Deaton hushed them, saying, “it won’t burn anything.”

Silence fell, but Parrish was apart from it. He was above it. Flames licked him, but they weren’t searing. His skin didn’t peel, didn’t blister, didn’t flake. He breathed deeply, felt tongues of fire against his lips, warmth moving against his skin like hands cradling every inch of his body.

“Feel the heat moving up your arm,” Deaton said, “ and into Stiles’ hand.  Can you feel that?”

“Yes,” Parrish whispered back. It was as if he and Stiles were connected; the fire seeped through his veins, into his skin, into the palm of his hand and through his fingers; from there, he could feel Stiles’ hand, could feel the thin fingers and pale skin against his. A cooler body. A frail form.

“I feel it…” he said, but he wasn’t sure who he was talking to. Surely the whole world could feel this. He’d never been more alive. Nothing had ever been more perfect. “I know what I need to do.”

Deaton’s satisfaction was tangible, and Parrish heard a small rustle of movement, as if he’d nodded. “Then do it.”

He was cocooned in a blanket of heat, a cradle of warmth. It moved, undulating, from him and into Stiles; up his arm, over the bone and skin of his shoulder, up the tensed tendons straining in his neck; through his spine, darting around the vertebra that curled up his neck, and finally, under his skull, wrapping around his brain, nestling in cerebral fluid. Parrish could feel the damaged parts. The weakened, thinned, dying areas of Stiles’ brain.

He heard Stiles gasp.

“I’ve found it. The dementia.”

“Then take it,” Deaton said.

Parrish did.

What he knew next was pain.

The fire returned to him, roaring back into his body like a storm, like a wash of chemical agony, like the mightiest poison. It was the disease. Carried from Stiles to him. He felt his mind splintering, reality slipping, his very thoughts twisting and collapsing as Stiles’ mind grew, reformed, became whole again. Now he was on fire, but it was hellfire. He arched off the bed, and he could feel tremors shaking him, convulsing through him with the intensity of a seizure as his mind was torn apart. He couldn’t think. He didn’t remember his own name. He didn’t know why he was doing this, why he would possibly put himself through this torture- every single fibre of his being screamed for him to _let go._

But he didn’t.

Because he knew what he had to do. This was his duty.

He didn’t realise he was screaming until he stopped. Until the pain ended, finally, and his hand fell back onto the bed. Everything was black, and soft.

He fell into nothingness.

 

 

 

SHERIFF JOHN STILINSKI

 

When the fire surrounding Parrish finally disappeared, Stiles lurched away from him. The Sheriff wrapped his arms around his son, and stared at him. Already, colour was returning to his cheeks. His eyes were alert, alarmed- he was _alive,_ in a way that he hadn’t been for weeks. The Sheriff thought he might collapse. He smiled, and Stiles smiled, and the Sheriff hugged his boy tighter than he ever had before.

“Dad,” Stiles said, choked up.

“You’re okay. You’re okay now.” He ran his hand over the back of Stiles’ head, smoothing his hair. He heard sighs of relief, and relieved laughter from Stiles’ friends. Scott was leaning against a wall, head tipped back, eyes closed, a wide grin on his face.

“Parrish? Deputy, can you hear me?”

The Sheriff lifted his head from Stiles’ shoulder, and looked over to the bed- his stomach clenched, and suddenly, all the celebration was drained from the room.

Deaton was leaned over Parrish, one hand on his pulse, the other on his chest. Parrish’s eyes were closed and his mouth was hanging open. His hand, previously held by Stiles, was curled limply on the bed sheets.

“Is this,” Stiles cleared his throat, wiped his eyes, “Is this normal? Is he…?”

“This is normal, yes.” Deaton pulled back one of Parrish’s eyelids, shone a light into his eyes. “Particularly considering what he took from you, and that he’s never healed anyone before. Deputy? Jordan Parrish, can you hear me?”

No response.

“…Scott, I want you to go to my car and get the first aid kit out of the front seat. You know where it is.” As Scott ran off, Deaton turned to the Sheriff. “Are you still willing to watch over him?”

What a question. “He just saved my son. Of course I’m going to watch over him, goddamnit.”

Deaton smiled. The Sheriff wondered if he was ever shocked by anything, or if he lived in a complete state of amusement and calmness. This was not a man who lost control of situations. “Very well. In that case, I’d like the rest of you to leave, please. The less people that are here when he wakes up, the better.”

“Can’t we stay?” Lydia demanded. “To make sure he’s alright? If something goes wrong, I want to be here when it happens.”

“Everything will be fine,” Deaton said slowly, and Sheriff Stilinski thought about how he’d make a fantastic cop. “Trust me, Lydia, when I say that Deputy Parrish is in good hands.”

Lydia looked doubtful. The Sheriff hoped that was just her feeling that way, and not the Banshee part of her. Now was not a good time for her to be predicting death.

He suddenly panicked, as he looked down at Parrish, unconscious and already beginning to grow an alarming shade of pale.

_What if he stays dead? What if he doesn’t come back?_

He mentally shook himself.

_Get a hold of yourself, John. Goddamn._

 

 

After twenty minutes, Parrish still hadn’t moved. But his breathing was steady, and his heart rate wasn’t slowing or speeding up; he was out cold. His steady vitals, while being a good thing, did nothing to reassure the Sheriff.

He sat where Stiles had been sitting, arms crossed, while Deaton made a phone call in another room.

“That was my contact, another Phoenix- or, someone from her pack, anyway,” Deaton said as he entered the room again, putting the phone back in his pocket, “according to them, this is quite normal. It could take him anything up to an hour to wake up. But I must warn you that having another supernatural here with you would be advisable; the sudden reformation of the Deputy’s brain could cause any number of side effects. He could get angry, or very scared.”

“I can handle it. I have before.” The Sheriff could hear Deaton drawing breath to argue, so he added, “I’ll call Scott if something happens.”

“That’s a good idea.” Deaton paused. “He’ll be alright, Sheriff. His kind are engineered for this.”

“Engineered for suffering?’

Deaton smiled again. “You might say that.”

The Sheriff nodded. “Well, I really hope you’re right. Because… if he dies...”

Deaton nodded seriously, hands folded in front of him, like some kind of guru. The Sheriff wanted to shake him, demand how he was being so calm. This situation was so out of his control that it was scaring him; he didn’t know what was going on in Parrish’s brain. He didn’t know what nightmares were tearing him apart as he lay motionless. Any second, he expected Parrish to start screaming, start wailing with agony like Stiles did at night. The suspense had him as highly strung as a violin wire. Would Parrish start having seizures? Would he hallucinate? How badly was his brain damaged? What rate was the disease progressing at?

“He _chose_ to be here- and, even if it hadn’t been Stiles, he’d have had to heal someone eventually.” Deaton reassured him gently. “I guarantee you that, as scary as this looks, he will be okay. The first time’s always the hardest. He’ll be better at it next time.”

The Sheriff wished it was that easy. To have such faith in forces so utterly out of his hands, and beyond his understanding.

Maybe that’s why he’d never been religious.

“Tell you what, doc,” he shifted in his seat, settling down, getting comfortable, “you head on home.”

“Are you sure?”

“He volunteered to do this, right? Well, I’m volunteering to stay by his side. You go get some sleep. You’re not the one in his debt. And, thank you for helping to save Stiles.”

There was a moment of silence, and the Sheriff thought Deaton might try to argue the point. Instead, he nodded, and said, “goodnight, Sheriff.” Then, he was gone.

The Sheriff listened to the front door close, Deaton’s car drive away, and then the silence of an unfamiliar house. He stared at Parrish’s slack face for a while, trying to convince himself that this was all under control, that the panic he felt at seeing Parrish unconscious was just instinctual, and not a warning he should heed.

Then he got out his phone and told Stiles to bring him some clothes.

 

***

 

After another hour, Parrish still hadn’t moved. Not an inch, not a twitch, nothing. The Sheriff collected his clothes from Stiles, and explored the house a little. It was a small place, with a kitchen, a living room, one bathroom, and two bedrooms- he noted, absently, that there was no female presence here, and nothing to indicate anyone else was keeping Parrish company. The Sheriff was astounded. For very obvious reasons, Parrish didn’t seem like the kind of man who would have trouble finding a girlfriend.

The Sheriff found a spare bedroom, and put his duffel bag down. After checking that Parrish was still out for the count, he quickly changed into a shirt and a pair of jeans.

He had no idea how this would play out.


	3. Chapter 3

DEPUTY JORDAN PARRISH

 

He opened his eyes and saw white.

It wasn’t white, not exactly. A cream colour. He decided he liked it.

He looked at it until realisation dawned slowly on him; this was his bed. In his house. He lived here.

He thought for a little longer. His head felt like a balloon; full of air, full of helium, spinning when he turned his head to look at the doorway. His head felt like someone had reached into his skull, and pulled out all his thoughts, yanked everything out of his mind, and mushed up what was left of his brain. The world was strange, and he didn’t know what was happening. He slowly got up and, as he set his feet to the carpet, thought, _Jordan. My name is Jordan._

That made him happier. Knowing his name.

He tried to remember more, but couldn’t. He walked out of the doorway, and found himself in a hallway. He knew he’d been here before. _That’s right,_ he nodded to himself, the world undulating like a wave as he did, _I live here._

As he was looking around, trying to remember but not succeeding, a man appeared.

He was older, and bigger, than Jordan. The man stared at him, shocked, and Jordan stared back, glad that he wasn’t alarmed by this man. He knew him.

 _Sheriff,_ he thought, and a swell of warmth hummed through him. How good that there was someone he knew. _He’s my Sheriff._

 

 

 

SHERIFF JOHN STILINSKI

 

When he started to head back to Parrish’s bedroom, he stopped in his tracks; Parrish was standing in the hallway, leaned against the wall. His eyes were half lidded, gazing around with bleary confusion. He was still wearing his uniform, and it contrasted so bizarrely with his clueless expression that the Sheriff felt a jolt of discomfort.

“…Parrish?”

To the Sheriff’s relief, Parrish didn’t panic. He simply turned his head, and looked at him with unfocussed eyes- hazel eyes. Not orange.

“You’re… Sheriff.”

He swallowed. Parrish looked at him expectantly, shoulders rounded forward in a juvenile way, arms hanging like a child’s. Parrish had always stood straight-backed and strong, but now his entire posture was loose, puppet-like.

“…Yes.”

“You’re my Sheriff.”

“Yes.”

“Am I a policeman?”

“Yes,” the Sheriff nodded. It was jarring; the low, Californian accent was devoid of everything quintessentially _Parrish-_ his enthusiasm, calmness, and perpetual optimism were gone, and his entire personality had been drained, leaving in its wake a confused, clueless young man. “You’re a Deputy.”

Parrish thought about it. It seemed to take quite some effort; the Sheriff’s chest seized up, for a moment, as he saw his wife’s listless brown eyes reflected in Parrish’s dazed hazel ones.

It was happening all over again.

“Deputy… Jordan.”

“Deputy Jordan Parrish.”

Parrish’s face brightened suddenly, excited. “Yes. That’s my name. My last name. I was trying to remember. But…” Parrish swallowed, frowning. “What… Why’re you in my house…?”

The Sheriff paused. Better to lie. “You’re sick. I’m here to look after you for a few days. Is that okay?”

Parrish’s face tightened with distress. “I… don’t remember. Why don’t I…. I can’t…”

“You’ve got a fever.” Another lie; Parrish was cold as ice. The Sheriff placed a hand gently on his shoulder. “Why don’t you lie down?”

_Before you fall down._

Parrish nodded, head bobbing up and down loosely, mumbling, “Do feel tired,” before he swayed on his feet. The Sheriff steadied him.

“Alright, come on. Just a little bit further. Let’s get you to bed.”

He heard those words come out of his mouth, and felt a stab of pain. He’d said those words before. He’d done this before, all of this. He’d have to watch Parrish die the same way his dear Claudia had.

But at least it wouldn’t be Stiles.

When they finally got to the bedroom, Parrish leaned towards the bed, and ended up crawling onto it, falling onto his side and curling into a ball, bringing his knees towards his chest. He looked younger, like this. Vulnerable.

He was asleep in seconds.

 

Fifteen minutes later, the Sheriff came back, and Parrish was halfway out of his uniform, tangled in his clothes. The sight, for a moment, stopped the Sheriff in his tracks- he shook himself, inwardly sighing at the fact the was, undeniably, _male,_ when it came to automatic reactions. He couldn’t help it. Parrish was very beautiful.

But he wasn’t any kind of monster that would take advantage.

Parrish looked up at him blearily, and the Sheriff knew Parrish had no clue who he was. But he was either too weak to care, or knew at some level that he could trust him, because he made a miserable expression and weakly said, “help?”

The Sheriff nodded.

He helped Parrish out of the tan uniform. It was difficult work, undressing someone who was only half conscious- but he’d done it for Claudia enough times to know how. He propped Parrish against the headboard while he searched through his cupboard.

“Where do you keep your pyjamas?” He asked.

Parrish was frowning deeply. His hands were limply cradled in his lap, and he was looking down at them with intense concentration, as if trying to figure out how his fingers worked. He didn’t reply.

The Sheriff smiled sadly to himself, and kept on looking.

Parrish had always been a man who commanded respect, even at his young age. He was handsome, hard working, humble, and- most of all- dignified. Seeing him like this was jarring. The Sheriff only hoped that Parrish wouldn’t remember this when he rose from the ashes.

 _Rising from the ashes…_ the Sheriff thought, as he pulled out a plain grey t-shirt and black fabric shorts, _Every time I think this town can’t get weirder…_

“Can you put these on?” He held them out.

Parrish looked up from his hands and considered the clothes with narrowed eyes. After eventually deciding the clothes were not a threat, he reluctantly took them. “Who are you?”

“I’m your…” _boss_ “…friend.”

“Why’re you here? This is my house.”

The Sheriff decided to go with the same story as he had before. Maybe some repetition would help with believing it. “You’re sick. I’m here to look after you for a few days.”

Parrish stared up at him. His face, usually so alert and intelligent, was confused. As if he had been injected with a sedative.

“What, you want to watch me get dressed?” He muttered. “Get out.”

The Sheriff grinned, amused. “Sure, Parrish. Sure thing.”

 

He gave Parrish five minutes, then looked back into the room. Parrish was asleep, but had- somehow- managed to get dressed. Sort of. One arm hadn’t made it through the sleeve.

He put Parrish’s arm through the sleeve, and lifted him, negotiating the blankets around him until he was under them- it was disconcerting, the way Parrish’s arms and legs dangled limply, the way his head hung back, his mouth open. When he was settled, the Sheriff checked his pulse and breathing, just to be sure. Once he was satisfied that Parrish was comfortable, he stood back and considered the view outside the bedroom window. It was nearing nine o’clock.

He drew the curtains, turned out the light, and went to go find something to make for dinner.


	4. Chapter 4

STILES STILINSKI

 

Malia came over, to keep him company. The house was empty, so they put on music while they made spaghetti bolognaise. Malia’s cooking skills were still more than dubious, so Stiles did most of the advising, and most of the actual cooking. She still had a rough edge, a wild side. He knew she would never be tamed, and he loved it. There was an honesty about her that he’d never find any where else.

He kept checking his phone, until Malia yanked it out of his hand. He jumped after it- the last time Malia had gotten annoyed at him checking his phone, she’d dropped it in the sink, which had been full of water at the time. Material objects weren’t high on her list of priorities.

“Stop checking it, and I’ll let you have it!” She held it above her head, darting her hand away from him every time he got close.

“Fine, fine!” Stiles grabbed at it. “Come on, Malia, don’t-”

“Promise.”

“I promise!”

She gave it back to him. He checked it again.

“Stiles!”

“I’ve gotta know what’s going on with dad and Parrish, okay!” He put the phone back in his pocket. “Look, phone away, see? Gone. Poof. Magic.” He wiggled his fingers in the air, earning a dry look from Malia. He turned back to the bolognaise.

Malia’s arms slipped around his waist, her chin on his shoulder. He liked the way she held him. It made him feel protected, gender norms be damned.

“You should’ve told me,” she said quietly.

He sighed. “I know.”

She paused. “It’s okay that you didn’t.”

“…Is it?”

“Sort of. I still want to punch you, but I get why you didn’t say anything.”

He squinted. “Can we get back to the part where you were okay with me not telling you?”

“All I’m saying is,” she squeezed him tighter, inhaling against his neck, “next time, you can tell me. Alright? I might be stupid, but I’m not dumb.”

“You’re not stupid. Or dumb. You’re a senior, remember?” He felt her smile against his skin. “You know, we should have a party for you. Most kids barely make it through, and you not only made it through, you passed after re learning to write and speak again. That’s, like, brilliant. _You’re_ brilliant.”

She hummed in agreement, trying to play down her pride, but he knew she was thrilled. School was hard for her. Harder than it was for most, even those with supernatural distractions. “You’re trying to butter me up.”

“Well,” he turned his face, kissed her lightly on the mouth, “consider yourself thoroughly buttered.”

She laughed.

“Seriously. I’m proud of you.”

“I’m proud of me, too.”

“Then that’s what matters.”

As he stood there, stirring their dinner, Malia’s breath warming his neck, he felt safe. Thinking about Parrish had his heart thumping and his breath shaking, so he didn’t. His dad would take care of Parrish. And they would all be okay.

He realised he wasn’t going to lose everything.

In that moment, Stiles was the happiest person on the planet.

 

 

 

SHERIFF JOHN STILINSKI

 

He decided he’d to bed only after cooking a pot of thick pumpkin soup with ingredients he found in Parrish’s fridge. From what he’d seen, Parrish was in alright shape, his partial amnesia aside- but he didn’t expect that would last. He realised he’d probably end up feeding Parrish himself, which was an uncomfortable thought. Seeing Parrish this undignified didn’t feel right- but who else would Parrish prefer to watch over him? As far as the Sheriff knew, Parrish didn’t have any family; the initial investigation, when they’d hired Parrish as Deputy, had shown that both his parents were deceased, and he had no siblings.

The Sheriff was suddenly struck by how solitary a life Parrish lived.

After he finished making the soup, he looked through the cupboards in Parrish’s living room until he found what he was looking for, nestled among DVDs and books; a photo album.

It was filled, mainly, with polaroids. The first picture was a dark-haired man and a blonde woman, both smiling widely, sitting on a picnic blanket; between them was a small boy, who was grinning from ear-to-ear. The boy was obviously Parrish; his blonde-brown hair was chopped into an untidy bowl cut, and he was thin and gangly in a way all teenage boys were. The Sheriff smiled affectionately, reminded of Stiles. He closed the album and put it back where he’d found it, in case Parrish went looking for it. He committed its location to memory- if Parrish forgot everything again, and got upset about it, he’d need to be able to show it to him. He’d done the same thing with his wife.

He checked Parrish was still asleep. It was nearing eleven o’clock.

He glanced at the spare bedroom up the hall, and sighed in frustration. If Parrish woke up in the middle of the night, not knowing where he was, and decided to go for a walk? Things could get messy. He might panic and attack someone- with his abilities, it was entirely possible he might kill someone. The Sheriff didn’t want that resting on Parrish’s conscience.

He couldn’t risk going to sleep far away from Parrish.

He settled down in the chair next to Parrish’s bed, and prepared himself for a long night.

 

 

 

MALIA TATE

 

She wasn’t sure how to tell Stiles.

The secret was weighing on her; Stiles mattered to her, like no one else had mattered to her before. She loved him, pure and wonderful, but it it was nothing like the connection she felt with her mother, with the Desert Wolf; that bond was one of violence, of blood, of unchosen loyalty.

She didn’t know how to tell Stiles that her mother had appeared in her bedroom over two weeks ago, a dirty knife in her hand, eyes cold and intelligent.

“Come with me,” her mother had said, “You think your little band of friends are the real heroes of this world? I’m the hero here. I kill people who deserve to die. You can do the same.”

“I’m nothing like you,” Malia had hissed, “You’re a _murderer.”_

Her mother had smiled. “Didn’t I just say that?”

“You’re evil! You’re ruthless!”

“I know. And that’s why I’ll always be able to make the decisions your little motley crew can’t.”

Malia hadn’t known how to respond. She knew the kinds of people her mother killed. Paedophiles. Criminals. Rapists. Malia knew what Stiles wanted her to think, and she knew how Stiles wanted her to feel- he wanted her to deplore death, and he wanted to her to find a non-fatal way of dispersing justice.

But the need sung in her veins. The need to do good, in the most ancient way. To rip apart the filth of the world with her claws and her teeth, blood spilling over her skin and her fur, eyes inhuman, speaking in growls instead of words.

Her mother had smiled, teeth sharp and primal like a shark’s, and she knew she’d won. She’d leapt out the window, and Malia had frozen where she stood, because she knew it too.

Her mother visited every night.

“Come with me,” she always said, “Come back to the desert. Feel the sand under your paws. Meat between your teeth.”

And she wanted to. She wanted to become the animal she knew she was destined to be.

And she would be.

She just had to figure out how to say goodbye.

 

 

 ALLAN DEATON

 

Deaton stayed awake, as he was sure the Sheriff was also doing. He stayed by his phone, while reading through some old texts he’d recovered in Mexico. He was lucky Druids generally were allowed some diplomatic immunity; he’d never have gotten these if he’d expressed any kind of direct loyalty to a particular pack. That would’ve meant payment, and a change of loyalty, was expected.

Druids had always been scholarly people- at least, most of them. It was Deaton’s firm belief that a Druid’s place was in protecting and healing, as was a Phoenix’s. But, he supposed, people had always rivalled their nature; Parrish was a policeman, who not only vowed to serve and protect, but also to use force when necessary. He carried a weapon. And Deaton knew his own sister certainly didn’t view being a Druid as a passive role.

His phone rang. He gently lowered the book to the table and removed his white gloves, careful to keep his bare hands away from the pages. He picked up his phone and frowned at the screen; caller ID said UNKNOWN in large, threatening letters. It was a dangerous world he lived in; one foot in the supernatural, one foot out of it. He could never be too sure exactly who was knocking at his door.

He answered anyway, because it would probably be worse not to.

“This is Dr. Deaton. May I ask your name?”

 _“I felt it,”_ said a shaky female voice. Deaton raised an eyebrow.

“May I ask your name, miss?”

_“Oh, for god’s sake, Dr. Deaton- it’s me. Lillian White.”_

The Phoenix. Deaton nodded slowly to himself, and smiled. “I didn’t expect you to have any contact with me that wasn’t via email, or through other members of your pack.”

_“That was before. But I felt your Phoenix heal someone- it was violent. By god, it was violent. Are they alright? If they’re not dead yet, they soon will be.”_

An ominous prediction, but not a surprising one. “I imagine you’re correct. He healed someone with frontotemporal dementia.”

 _“He… He did_ what?”

The tone of her voice worried Deaton. “…Is something wrong?”

_“But he’s… He’s never healed before, has he? Tell me he at least has a Protector.”_

“No. He’s only just been made aware of what he is.”

 _“Oh my god,”_ Deaton heard a quiet rustle of static as she breathed deeply, _“Jesus. Jesus Christ. The first time I healed someone, it was just a tiny cut, and that was agonizing. Do you realise the kind of pain he must be in? It’d be like Hell… Not to mention the disfiguration of his brain caused by the disease itself… By God. By God.”_

Deaton frowned. “You didn’t mention before that his first time healing somebody would be so bad.”

_“I did!”_

“You said it might be difficult, not that he might feel like he was in Hell.”

_“Fucking Jesus-”_

“If you could calm down and cease with your obscene language, I would very much appreciate it.”

 _“This is is no time for being_ proper, _goddamnit! There’s nothing anyone can do for him now! If he isn’t insane at the end of this, you better thank your lucky fucking stars, because I’m pretty certain he’ll be locked up in Eichen House!”_

Deaton set his jaw. “Is there nothing at all I can do? No way to help him?”

_“Not unless you’re his Protector.”_

“I’m… slightly undereducated with regards to the specifics of a Phoenix’s Protector. Could you tell me more?”

She huffed out an angry sigh, and said, _“Each Phoenix unconsciously chooses a Protector, who can dull their pain and ease them into death. They’re an extremely important part of the process. If I’d known your Phoenix was going to try and heal someone without one…”_

“Is it possible that he might choose a Protector before this healing period ends?”

_“Before he dies? He might. Given he’s probably desperately in pain, he might be forced to. Who’s looking after him? You?”_

“No. Someone else.”

_“Just one person?”_

“Yes. Is it likely they’ll become the Phoenix’s Protector?”

_“You’d better fucking hope so.”_

She hung up, and Deaton stared at his phone. It seemed he’d been ill-qualified to recommend Parrish to heal Stiles. But what choice had they had? Stiles had been dying, and he had been dying permanently.

He considered whether calling the Sheriff was a good idea. The man had a right to know about the situation, particularly if there was a chance he could be supernaturally linked to Deputy Parrish.

He began to dial the Sheriff, when something collided with the back of his head. His forehead hit the table, and his phone clattered to the ground.

“Jackpot,” He heard someone say, and then he was unconscious.


	5. Chapter 5

SHERIFF JOHN STILINSKI

 

Thankfully, the night passed without incident. He caught sleep in one and two hour snatches, jerking awake every now and then to check Parrish’s pulse and breathing. It was nothing less than what he’d become used to, living with Stiles.

5 AM rolled around, and the Sheriff became aware exactly how much Parrish’s health had begun to decline; the sun made its way through the gap in the curtains, slicing into the room like a bolt of lightning, painting a yellow stripe over Parrish’s skin that contrasted worryingly with the unhealthy pallor of his face. Sweat glistened, dripping down over his temples, sticky on his cheeks and his forehead. Sheriff Stilinski stood, retrieved a towel from the kitchen, dampened it, and brought it back to the bedroom along with a glass of water. He’d have to keep Parrish’s hydration steady, or things could get bad- or worse than they already were, anyway.

He turned Parrish’s head so that he was facing the ceiling, and brushed hair off his face, running the towel over his skin.

Every brain was different. Diseases affected every mind a different way- and there was the added complication of the accelerated rate of the dementia. Parrish was being eaten alive, right in front of him, and the Sheriff knew that he could do very little but try to make him as comfortable as possible.

He smoothed the towel over Parrish’s skin, slowly, gently. He looked at the moisture beading on Parrish’s eyelashes, his thin upper lip, his round lower lip, the slant of his cheekbones and the way they curved down to join his jaw; this was the man who had saved his son’s life, and therefore his. He thought of glowing orange eyes, fire that did not burn, touch that could heal.

The Phoenix.

Sheriff John Stilinski never been a religious man. He laughed in the face of things he could not see, and all-powerful beings he did not believe in.

But he felt like he was worshipping at the altar of a God.

 

 

 

DEPUTY JORDAN PARRISH

 

Pain surrounded him.

That much, he knew. But he couldn’t feel it, not exactly. If he had to name what he felt, he’d say that he felt white. Brightness blinded him. Sound, high pitched and without a source, deafened him. His body ached with agonies sharper than glass and hotter than the molten lava that lazily churned in the centre of the Earth. But he was flying. Floating. None of it mattered, because none of it was real.

He wondered if this was what it was to go mad.

He remembered something. A boy with big brown eyes, silently begging for his life. A father with responsibility in his hands and the weight of death on his shoulders.

He did not know their names.

The pain inched closer, the white no longer content with him being apart from it. Time passed, he didn’t know how long- it might’ve been minutes, or hours, or days- or maybe just seconds- but eventually, agony was all he knew. Fire, liquid and untouchable, that peeled apart his limbs and gagged him with thick smoke; claws, shredding, gouging out his eyes and ripping out his tongue; teeth, pulling his oesophagus from his throat, his heart from his chest, the tendons and muscles from his body. He was being ripped apart, and it was unending. He was being dissected by white light.

He cried out. His words were nothing but noises.

A voice spoke, and he arched away from it, because it hurt him, it hurt him _so much._

But the voice reached him.

Slowly, the white pain receded. It became blue, then orange, then yellow, soft as a flame on the head of a match; the fire no longer burned him, and he remembered that fire was his friend. Claws receded, teeth disappeared beneath invisible lips, and he was no longer suffocated.

“You’re alright, Parrish. It’s okay, it’s okay.”

He could feel fabric against his face. A voice telling him it was alright. Fingers were against his forehead, a palm cupping his skull, holding him as he strained away, still trying to escape. Sheets straining in his grip.

“Calm down. Calm down.” Fingers, trailing golden magic in their wake, soothed his shaking fists. His hands loosened, and a breath found its way into his chest.

“…That’s it, Parrish. Calm down. You’re alright.” The voice sounded like golden sunlight, as pure and deep as the rivers that ran over the Earth like lifeblood. “Can you hear me?”

He could. But his mouth would not open, his voice would not spill from his lips. He was too tired. All he could do was listen to the voice, and pray it did not leave him to the fire.

He relaxed into the bed, as the pain faded. The hands kept holding him, cradling his head.

The embrace swallowed him, and he drifted.

 

 

 

SHERIFF JOHN STILINSKI

 

The fit had come so suddenly. Parrish had been still, utterly dead to the world- next thing the Sheriff knew, distressed noises were filling the room, louder and louder by the second. He’d started shaking, tossing his head from side to side, making loud, terrified sounds- sounds that didn’t belong in the mouths of grown men.

The Sheriff did what he could and it seemed to help; the more he touched Parrish, the more he spoke, the more Parrish relaxed. He could hear, at some level, even if he didn’t understand. He opened his eyes, but obviously couldn’t see anything. His mouth opened and closed, nonsensical mumbles hitting the air, half-formed words mashing together in a confused jumble.

“It’s alright,” The Sheriff smiled down at him, looking into his half-lidded eyes, even though no one was looking back. He placed a hand on his cheek, and Parrish turned his head into the touch, eyes falling closed. “That’s it. You’re alright. Just calm down. I’m here.”

A breath, soft, fell from Parrish’s mouth. He went limp, finally, and the Sheriff sighed with relief.

He stayed for as long as it took to convince himself that Parrish wasn’t going to wake up and start screaming. Not yet, anyway.

Rumbling hunger eventually forced him into the kitchen.

He had some of the soup that he’d made, and a sandwich. He felt oddly guilty about eating Parrish’s food, but it wasn’t like he had a choice. It was odd- he had to search through all the cupboards to locate cutlery and bowls and glasses; this was not his home. It was someone else’s. He felt like a stranger here. He wanted to go home and be with his son, revel in the knowledge that his boy would live to go to college, to get a job, maybe even to get married. He wanted to get in his car and leave.

But he couldn’t. He entertained the notion for the barest second, and it left him feeling nauseated.

He knew Parrish needed him.

 

 

 

LYDIA MARTIN

 

The whispers were loud.

It was a unique experience; they were all saying that Parrish was dying, but it wasn’t a desolate announcement. They reassured her, in their hushed tones and hissed breaths, that he would live again.

She lay in bed, listening to them. A normal teenager’s room surrounded her. Makeup, jewellery, clothes, shoes, a lipstick as bright and powerful as the ego of a powerful woman- these were all things she had, but did not need. She was the girl that the voices spoke to. She was the mouthpiece of these invisible beings, these entities.

She wondered if they were a product of her, or she of them.

“Lydia! Will you turn off that alarm!”

Lydia glanced, unconcerned at her door, through which her mom had yelled. She realised her alarm had been blaring, a high-pitched beeping, for what had probably been at least half an hour. The voices faded, gleeful. She could’ve sworn they enjoyed taunting her.

She got up, turned off the alarm, and dressed. She thought about going to see Parrish, but- as much as she wanted to- she knew there was no point. Parrish would live. She’d know if anything else were to happen.

 _But_ , she mused, as she pulled on a summer dress, _it does seem sad. No one at his bedside but someone who has no choice._

She didn’t hold anything against Parrish. She did think it was stupid he’d had a problem with her age, but really, she couldn’t fault him for it; he was a cop. If anyone would be well acquainted with the laws concerning underage relations, it would be him.

She decided she’d go this afternoon.

 

When she got to school, Stiles was there, Malia in tow, walking up to where Scott and Kira were standing, hand-in-hand.

She envied them. She envied having a hand to hold, a mouth to kiss, someone she could love like she’d never properly loved anyone before. Why did she always fall for the bad guys?

She looked at Stiles, and realised she didn’t always fall for the bad ones. Stiles wasn’t bad.

He turned and looked at her. They held each other’s gazes for a while, the others talking, and she smiled at him. _I’m glad you’re alive again,_ she said, _but I can’t stand to be around two couples- two happy, committed, mutually respecting couples._

_I can’t stand to stand alone among you._

She turned on her heel, and knew Stiles would not follow. Knew he would turn back to Malia, his wild love, and his best friend. He would not go after her, because he had made his choice.

And now she was making hers.

 

She walked into her AP Biology classroom, empty, and took out her phone. She’d had an offer, a month ago, and the only reason she’d turned it down was because she wasn’t prepared to leave her friends yet. Not yet. Always, always, not yet.

At the very least, she’d stick around until Parrish was on his feet again. She’d stay until everyone had gotten their results, and the celebrations were over. Then, while they were still preparing for senior year, she’d leave.

She dialled Stamford. She was in, they’d said as much. She would get on an academic scholarship, and study pure mathematics. The course would begin early; she and a handful of other exceptional students would be placed in scientific and mathematical places of employment, likely as receptionists, so that they could observe how theory was lived out in real-life careers. They would work, and be paid, and through that they would support themselves in their course. It was the opportunity of a lifetime, and a way into an extremely exclusive, and _very_ highly-paid, career.

All they needed was a starting date.


	6. Chapter 6

SHERIFF JOHN STILINSKI

 

No one had come to visit Parrish.

Scott, Lydia, Stiles and Deaton had all texted and called, asking how he was, but none of them had actually driven the small distance to visit him.

If he were more reasonable, he’d have thought it was fair enough; the pack had school, and Deaton had a business to run. Life went on.

But he wasn’t feeling reasonable about this. He was feeling angry.

He stood over the sink, ringing the sweat out of a towel, twisting it harder than was probably necessary. He’d told Stiles to stay away- god knew that boy had enough guilt in him already. But the others. Didn’t they care enough? Didn’t they realise how much Parrish was suffering, and the selflessness of what he’d done?

He went back into the bedroom, darkening as the day turned to night, and was shocked to see that Parrish was awake, and looking at him with clarity. He’d pulled off his shirt and dropped it onto the floor, and was propped up on his elbows, shoulders and chest moving with each breath he took, sweat wetting the dips and curves of his skin. He looked like he’d just run a mile. The grey circles under his eyes were getting darker.

The Sheriff’s eyes immediately fixed on his bare chest, muscled and flat, but he shook his head, ashamed of himself. His conflicted feelings regarding his loyalty to Claudia aside, there was nothing wrong with appreciating Parrish’s physique on any other given day; looking at him that way while he was like this was just wrong.

“Hey, Parrish.”

Parrish frowned, biting his lip, and the Sheriff felt wary. He didn’t know how much Parrish knew, or thought he knew. This could be difficult. He took a seat.

Parrish watched him with alarmingly alert eyes. He didn’t appear worried, but he did seem suspicious.

“…Was it a bomb?”

The Sheriff blinked. “Uh,”

Parrish sat up a little more, looking down at his chest and frowning. “Where are my dog tags?” He looked up, and there was rigidity to his expression; the hardened face of a soldier. The Sheriff remembered Parrish had been in the Army.

The Sheriff decided to just play along.

“What’s the last thing you remember, solider?”

“I was in Afghanistan, sir.” Parrish straightened up. He actually looked like he might salute. “On a covert mission to dismantle a special kind of bomb. Are you privy to that information, sir? Do you know what our objective was?”

“I do.” He didn’t. Parrish’s file hadn’t revealed any secret operations in the armed forces. He wondered how much of this was real, and how much was a product of the dementia. “Tell me precisely where you were last.”

“I was with August. That’s August Chambers, sir. He was keeping guard while I dismantled the bomb.”

“Did you succeed?”

“I…” Parrish frowned. “I thought I did. I’ve never failed before, sir. But… did it go off? Did something go wrong? Is brain damage the reason I don’t remember anything?”

He wasn’t sure whether to lie or tell the truth. He decided to avoid the issue entirely. “You’re home from Afghanistan. I’m just looking after you for a few days.”

Parrish raised an eyebrow, and the Sheriff didn’t miss the way he looked him up and down. “…And you’re… sleeping at my house?”

The Sheriff shook his head, and felt mortified at the assumption Parrish’s addled mind was jumping to. “I’m not sleeping in your _bed,_ if that’s what you mean, soldier.”

“…Oh.” Parrish fell onto his back with an embarrassed laugh. He reached up and rubbed his face, and the Sheriff couldn’t help but watch the way his biceps rolled. “Right. Okay. Sorry, sir.”

“How about you get back to sleep, Parrish.”

“If I do, will I remember?” Parrish’s hands fell, loosely curled against where the sheets shaped themselves around his waist. He looked at the Sheriff, eyelids beginning to droop. “When I wake up, will I remember you? I don’t… I don’t feel like you’re someone I want to forget.”

He smiled, and couldn’t keep the sadness from his face. When he said, “I’m sure you will,” he knew it was a lie. He wasn’t sure at all. He tried not to think about that. “Goodnight, Parrish.”

Parrish’s eyes closed, and his throat glistened with sweat as he swallowed. “Goodnight...?”

“…John.”

He didn’t know why he’d given his first name. Parrish had never called him that.

Parrish smiled, eyes closed, and mumbled, “Goodnight, John.”

 

 

 

STILES STILINSKI

 

They headed to Parrish’s house, once he’d texted ahead to confirm that Parrish wasn’t in a state of panic. Scott drove, and the silence in the car was deafening. Stiles was just glad Liam hadn’t come; that kid had the annoying habit of asking the questions that polite people kept to themselves.

He tried to keep his fidgeting to a minimum, because there were two were-creatures in the car with him, and their heightened senses were probably already copping a hit from his untamed anxiety and racing heartbeat.

He knew his dad didn’t want him coming to see Parrish while he was sick. He thought Stiles would get guilty, and start blaming himself for the state Parrish was in- and Stiles knew he was right. He just didn’t think it was an unreasonable thing to feel.

He was glad he’d gotten to ride shotgun, because something was up with Lydia. He wasn’t sure what, but the way she’d looked at the four of them this morning… it had taken him a while to figure it out, and at first he’d assumed she was just feeling bad about how Parrish was. But he knew they weren’t together any more, if they were together at all, and he realised what she’d been looking at, what had stopped her dead in her tracks.

Two couples.

Thinking that Lydia was lonely, that she envied them, made sense. Every relationship she’d had had ended in pain or death, and usually in combinations of the two. Knowing she was upset wasn’t something he would stand for, at all. Lydia was a goddess. She deserved to be treated like one.

He decided he’d make it his mission to find someone who would treat her properly. Not like Aiden, not like Jackson, not like any of the other semi-good-semi-murderous assholes she’d dated in the past. He’d find her someone who _loved_ her.

God knew he’d do it himself if he didn’t have Malia.

 

They pulled up outside Parrish’s house, and Stiles wasn’t encouraged by the expression on his dad’s face as he opened the door.

“Come on in, guys.”

Scott was the one to ask- he was the leader, after all. “How is he?”

Stiles watched the indecision on his dad’s face, the uncertainty. It made his heart beat even faster, made the worry in his ribcage flutter like a trapped bird. Frantic.

“…You guys should probably take a look for yourselves.”

And so they did.

Parrish was still as a corpse, and as pale as one too. Stiles stopped in the doorway, while everyone else gathered near him. Malia was busy inhaling the scents of the room- it was Lydia that gently took him by the wrist and led him closer.

Stiles swallowed hard. He felt like he was looking at a mirror; his illness, his disease, plastered onto the face of another. The handsome, intelligent, appropriately mysterious Deputy had been reduced to a fragile, pallid ghost of his conscious and healthy self. The wrongness of all of this screamed for Stiles to, somehow, fix the situation.

“Do I need to remind you that this isn’t your fault in any way?” His dad asked, and Stiles shook his head, because he’d heard enough times already; he didn’t need to hear it again, because it didn’t change anything. Parrish was still dying- and the worst of it was that Stiles was _glad._ He was glad Parrish was dying, because that meat he wasn’t.

Feeling that way left a sickening, horrifying relief churning in his stomach.

“How often does he wake up?” Kira asked, voice gentle and scared. Stiles had a hard time reminding himself that an ancient fox spirit resided inside her; she was so polite, so meek. She wasn’t a person made for violence.

“Occasionally. He doesn’t know who I am, usually. Often forgets who he is too.”

Stiles swallowed thickly. He’d heard that before. “I’m sorry, dad.”

His dad’s eyes filled with sorrow. “Don’t, Stiles.”

“I just, I know this makes you think of…” He looked down at his feet. _…of mom._

“Stiles, don’t apologise.”

“I know, dad, I just-”

“John?”

They all looked to the bed. Parrish’s eyes were open, staring around at them with unfocussed fear. He shifted as much he was able in the bed, the sheet falling down his bare chest.

“John, who’re all these people? Why’re they were? I thought you said…”

Stiles watched as his dad sat down, and took one of Parrish’s hands. “They’re your friends. They won’t hurt you.”

“But I don’t know them, I don’t know who they are- I thought, I thought you said this was,” Parrish frowned, squeezing his eyes shut, breaths getting faster and more panicked- and Stiles felt awful. He knew that frustration. That confusion. Every single thing, every single thought and memory, was on the tip of his tongue, just an inch away. All the time. And it wouldn’t end. It would keep getting worse, until he didn’t know his name, didn’t know his face, didn’t know what the names of colours were and couldn’t feed himself. “I thought this was my house- Why’re they here, I thought, I thought this was-”

“You’re alright, Parrish. Calm down. No one’s going to hurt you.”

Stiles was already ushering everyone out when his dad looked over his shoulder and shook his head sharply, gesturing with his chin, telling them all to leave.

“Who are they? Who are they?”

“No one, Parrish. You’re safe. You’re safe here.”

Stiles closed the door behind them, and sagged against it. He put his head in his hands. He could hear his dad reassuring Parrish in a gentle tone of voice, and remembered a blurry memory of when he was ten years old, in the doorway of his parent’s room as his mother insisted her son was trying to kill her.

“Don’t blame yourself.” Scott said, a hand on his shoulder.

Stiles shook his head. “Were you looking at the same guy I was? I barely even _recognise him,_ Scott.”

“So, what?” Malia demanded. “You’d have preferred to die?”

“Keep your voice down,” Lydia hissed. “He’ll hear you.”

Malia rolled her eyes, and Stiles wished she wouldn’t. She didn’t understand. But Lydia… Lydia knew what madness was. She knew what it was to have a slipping grip on reality. She was, after all, the girl who heard voices.

They went out to the car. Once Malia was already inside and negotiating with her seatbelt, Stiles felt Lydia’s hand slip into his. He looked at her, and she was smiling.

“I’d know if he was going to be killed, Stiles. He’ll survive.” She squeezed his hand. “Trust the Banshee.”

Despite what he’d just seen, despite the fact that Parrish was degrading because of him, Stiles grinned, and laughed- because he did.

He did trust her.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Melissa is awesome. I'm in the Melissa McCall Appreciation Fandom.

SHERIFF JOHN STILINSKI

 

He smoothed his hands over Parrish’s knuckles, over his palm, over the back of his hand where he could feel bone. He heard Scott’s car leaving, and Parrish obviously did too, because he let out a long, shaky sigh, and finally relaxed into the bed.

The Sheriff kept massaging his hand. It not only kept Parrish calm, it also gave him something to do besides stare at the chalky colour Parrish’s face was turning. His hands looked so old next to Parrish’s. The pits in his skin, the sun-beaten tan, the scars from manual labour, the winkles at his knuckles. But, though Parrish’s skin was smoother, he had callouses on the pads of his fingers and his palms. Gun callouses on worker’s hands. The Sheriff thought about bombs, about whether that story about Afghanistan really had been real. It was a stark reminder that he really didn’t know Parrish all that well.

“Were they really my friends?” Parrish breathed, his eyes closed.

He sighed. “Sort of. One of them was my son.”

“Which one?”

The Sheriff ran his thumb over Parrish’s wrist, feeling the join where bone met bone. “The one with black hair and brown eyes.”

“The panicky one?”

The Sheriff smiled. “That’d be about right.” He rubbed his thumb in small circles at the base of Parrish’s palm, feeling the tendons there, the meat of his hand.

“Will they come back?”

“Do you want them to?”

“…No.” Parrish’s hand flexed in the Sheriff’s grip; a nervous twitch of his fingers. “No. I don’t trust them.”

“Do you trust me?”

Parrish frowned, eyes still closed. Everything seemed to be harder for him now. Even keeping his eyes open was a colossal thing to accomplish. “I… do. I don’t know why. I don’t even know your full name, but… Were you in the Army with me?”

“No. I wasn’t.”

“How do I know you?” Parrish’s voice was a whisper. He opened his eyes, and there it was again; his gaze travelled up and down, wandering, and his assumption was clear, despite the listlessness of his face.

“We’re not in a relationship.”

Parrish paused. “You’re holding my hand.”

God. This was awful. He’d never been more exasperated in his life- and he lived with _Stiles,_ so that was saying something. “I’m just trying to keep you calm.”

“I feel calm.”

He sighed loudly. “Do you want me to stop? I can, if you want.”

“No.” Parrish said, quickly. His eyes slipped closed again. “I don’t mind, I just… I’m very confused.”

“I know you are. Are you hungry too?”

“…Yeah. Yeah, I am.”

“Right.” The Sheriff stood, glad to escape. “I’ll go get you some dinner.”

 

He filled up a bowl of soup, and put the rest in containers, stowing them in the freezer. As he was heating the bowl up in the microwave, an idea occurred to him; he went into the living room, found the album, and took it back to the kitchen- better that he have it on hand, in case Parrish wanted answers. It didn’t seem like Parrish would be up and about any time soon.

The microwave pinged, and he took the soup back into the bedroom along with the album.

Parrish had managed to sit up, bunching the sheets in his lap, leaning heavily against the headboard.

Sheriff Stilinski sat down, putting the album on the bedside table. “Do you think you’re strong enough to hold this?”

He held the bowl forward in two hands, and Parrish blinked slowly, and shook his head.

The Sheriff nodded. He hadn’t been looking forward to this. He didn’t know how much Parrish would remember, but he didn’t want Parrish to feel embarrassed if he did remember this.

He sighed and dipped a spoon into the soup.

The first mouthful dripped down Parrish’s chin, and the Sheriff went in the kitchen, found a stack of serviettes, and brought some back. He wiped the mess off Parrish’s face, and Parrish looked at him with curious eyes. It was like feeding a baby; Parrish sat back and let him wipe his face, slide a spoon between his lips, doing nothing more than swallow and take slow breaths. He’d never had to do this with Claudia. The hospital staff had done it for him.

It took them a long time, nearly half an hour, but eventually the bowl emptied. It was peaceful, really. Feeding him like this. They didn’t speak, and eventually the awkwardness the Sheriff felt faded; the quiet became comfortable.

“Do you want any more?”

Parrish’s eyes unfocussed, drifting somewhere near the Sheriff’s shoulder. “I want a shower,” he mumbled, and the Sheriff’s eyes widened.

 _Oh, hell._ He hadn’t even thought of that.

He took out his phone, and dialled Melissa.

_“Hey, Sheriff.”_

“Hi, Melissa. Could I ask a favour?”

 

***

 

She arrived after a little more than ten minutes, dressed in a loose t-shirt and jeans, her curly hair pulled back into a loose bun. He let her in with a tired smile, thinking how wonderful and selfless she was. He was disappointed in himself, that he’d never had the gall to ask her on a date.

“How is he?” She asked quietly, as he closed the front door.

“He’s alright.”

“I’m going to need more than that, Sheriff,” she said, gently, but with a professional directness, “, has he been violent at all? Aggressive?”

He shook his head and crossed his arms. “No, nothing like that. He gets panicked, sometimes. When the kids visited, he got freaked out because he didn’t know who they were.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I take it you’re going to introduce me and hope for the best?”

He sighed, rubbing his face, “I know it’s a lot to ask, but-”

“Hey.” A hand landed on his shoulder, rubbing comfortingly. “He saved Stiles’ _life._ If my part to play in this is giving him a bath, I’m not going to complain. I’m a nurse, I’m kinda certified in this area.”

The Sheriff let his hands fall, and smiled, both relieved and grateful; he had no desire to bathe Parrish himself, and deal with the complications of how he felt about him. “Thanks, Melissa.”

He went into the bedroom ahead of Melissa, and sat back in his seat. Parrish gazed at him, glazed but expectant.

“Is someone else here?” He asked, words slurring. He looked tired again.

“I’ve brought a friend over. She’s going to give you a bath. Because you’re not strong enough to stand on your own. Is that alright?”

Parrish hesitated, then said, “I would like a bath.”

“Are you alright with her taking care of you?”

“Will you be there?”

 _Hell no,_ the Sheriff thought, “I’ll be out here. Right out here. When you’re finished, she’ll bring you back to me. Alright? I’m not leaving.”

Parrish’s eyes dropped closed, and he sighed. “Alright.”

He went and got Melissa. She entered the room slowly, smiling reassuringly. The Sheriff knew it was for Parrish’s benefit, but he appreciated the effort as well.

“Jordan Parrish? My name’s Melissa.”

Parrish looked up at her. He’d met Melissa before, the Sheriff knew that, but there was no recognition in his barely-focussed hazel eyes. “You’re John’s friend?”

“Yes. I am. And I’d like to help you. I can imagine you really want a shower by now.”

The Sheriff felt a pang of guilt when relief crossed Parrish’s face; he probably should’ve called Melissa earlier.

“Yes. I do.”

“Alright. Can you stand up for me?”

Parrish tried, but walking on his own wasn’t an option. Melissa looped one of Parrish’s arms around the back of her neck, and the Sheriff went over and did the same. Parrish hung, heavy, between them as they made their slow way to the bathroom. He took stumbling, unsteady steps, eyes closed. The Sheriff could smell his sweat, strong like fear.

He wrapped an arm around Parrish’s back and held tight.

 

 

 

MELISSA MCCALL

 

She got Deputy Parrish settled into the bathtub, and pulled off the black fabric shorts he’d been wearing. She was a nurse, so nothing she was seeing shocked her; she looked his body over, instinctually looking for injuries, but found none. His head was resting against his shoulder and, though his eyes were open, he looked asleep.

“I’m going to start washing you now. Is that alright?”

He nodded, humming quietly. She wasn’t sure how much of him was still there.

She turned on the tap, getting warm water flowing. As she wet the sponge she’d brought with her, she wondered whether the Deputy would remember this. Then she decided it didn’t matter. There was no shame in being unable to take care of himself, and needing someone else to do it. It wasn’t like he’d be short on respect from those around him, given what he’d done for Stiles.

That was what she thought of, as she cleaned him, glancing occasionally into the depths of his vacant eyes. About what kind of man would knowingly do this, willing lose his mind, for someone else’s child.

A good man, without a doubt.

 

By the time she was finished cleaning him, he was asleep. She drained the bath and dried him, draping a towel over his groin. She called out to the Sheriff. He poked his head around the door, eyebrows raised.

“Come over here and wake him up. Less chance of him panicking if you do it.”

“Oh. Alright.” He entered the room hesitantly, and she rolled her eyes.

“He’s got a towel over him, Sheriff.”

Still, the Sheriff proceeded with caution, more than necessary. Melissa didn’t miss the way his eyes lingered on where the edge of the towel rested against Parrish’s thighs, and dart away again, accompanied by a nervous swallow.

She decided not to comment.

He got down onto his knees beside the bathtub and cleared his throat. “Parrish?” He reached over and put a hand flat on his shoulder. “Parrish, wake up.”

Parrish did, head rolling around, looking searchingly around before his confused eyes finally fell onto the Sheriff’s face. His expression, immediately, turned from alarm to relief.

“I thought you might’ve been someone else.” He mumbled.

They helped him up, Melissa tightening the towel around him, more for the Sheriff than for herself. It was odd, the way Parrish clung to him. She could’ve just put it down to him feeling as if he could trust the Sheriff, but she sensed it was more than that. Once they’d gotten Parrish lying down, she commented on it; “He seems pretty fond of you.”

The Sheriff shook his head, and sighed loudly. “I know.”

She smiled. There was something he wasn’t saying, but she didn’t feel like he’d tell her now. “Call if you need me again, okay?”

“I will. Thank you, Melissa.”

 

 

 

SHERIFF JOHN STILINSKI

 

He sat in his chair after Melissa had left. He sat there until he couldn’t any more, because he couldn’t stop thinking of the way Parrish had leaned against him, still damp from the bath, his wet hair leaving marks on his t-shirt; he’d been naked but for a towel, and the Sheriff could feel his skin under his hands, holding him, supporting him.

He got up and went to the kitchen. He washed his face with cold water.

It wasn’t that he was lusting after Parrish. Well, he was, but that was just something small, inconsequential, and would probably be forgotten eventually.

But this? This was something else _._

There was a feeling blooming in his chest- hotter than arousal or anger or fear. It burned. Lately, whenever his and Parrish’s skin touched, it felt like he was touching fire. Parrish hadn’t transformed even once the whole time the Sheriff had been looking after him, but the heat coming off his skin had begun to feel like flames, as if the water on him should rightfully have been turning to steam.

But Melissa hadn’t felt it.

This was something supernatural, he was certain. He had never, in his life, encountered this sensation before.

Something was happening. But he didn’t know what.

He wasn’t even sure whether he wanted to stop it.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the kinksters among you who started reading this for the #kidnapping tag, the story gets interesting around now!!  
> Also, Parrish's entire backstory is complete headcanon. I haven't seen the latest season (I'M SO ASHAMED), so keep that in mind.

SHERIFF JOHN STILINSKI

 

That night, he held Parrish up, essentially carrying him to the toilet. To the Sheriff’s relief, he was able to go on his own. He banged weakly on the wall when he was done, and the Sheriff carried him back to the bedroom. Parrish was heavy with muscle, and it didn’t help that he was almost incapable of walking. The Sheriff sat with a hand on his back, grunting in pain.

He was ignoring it. The simmering heat that sparked whenever he and Parrish had skin-on-skin contact. The house felt like a furnace, and he kept expecting to look over and see Parrish’s eyes had turned orange. He couldn’t deny that he was unnerved by whatever was happening, and he’d have liked to have answers, but he didn’t feel afraid. He knew he should’ve- but, even if Deaton hadn’t told him that Phoenixes were healers, he’d felt that he’d still have known it; he didn’t believe Parrish would ever hurt him.

He sat back in the chair and sighed. Parrish, wide awake for once, considered him blankly.

“Sheriff?”

He sat up straighter. “Parrish. What do you remember?”

Parrish frowned. “I don’t know. I know you’re supposed to be here. For some reason.” His face transformed, suddenly, into the Jordan Parrish that the Sheriff knew; a handsome grin, confident but not cocky, self-assured but not rebellious. “Even if it is weird that you’re in my house.”

The Sheriff laughed, trying not to get too caught up in the moment. His wife had done this too. Had moments of utter clarity, when she knew her son wasn’t trying to murder her, when she knew her paranoia and nightmares were just products of the illness, just the symptoms of her dementia.

But he thought this was an opportunity he should seize.

“Here,” he said, reaching over to the bedside table and grabbing the album, “you should look at this.”

Parrish took the album, but it was too heavy for his hands; he dropped it on his lap, and stared with alarmed worry at his arms and hands.

“What’s wrong with me? Why am I so weak?” He looked up, brow furrowed with worry and irritation. “Why aren’t I working at the station right now? Why aren’t _you_ at the station? What _day_ is it?”

“Well...” he sighed. “Parrish, how much do you remember? About what Deaton told you?”

Confusion filled his face. “Who’s that?”

 _Shit,_ the Sheriff thought _._

“You’ve got amnesia. You need to take it easy for a while.” He wondered how much Parrish knew. Was he aware he was in a town populated almost exclusively by monsters? Did he know that he wasn’t human?

“So why’re _you_ looking after me? I appreciate the effort, sir, but we’re not exactly,” Parrish paused, “friends. I mean, I respect you. But you only just hired me a few months ago. I barely know you.”

The Sheriff’s heart fell.

“You’ve…” He wondered how to phrase this. “…You’ve been in Beacon Hills for longer than you remember.”

Parrish’s eyes widened, and the Sheriff wished he hadn’t said anything. “How long?”

“…Years.”

The shock stilled Parrish’s face, slackened his expression. He swallowed thickly. In a very small voice, he said, “I don’t… I don’t remember _at all,_ how...?”

“I know you don’t. But it’s important for you to focus on what you do remember.” He gestured at the album. “That’s why I think you should look at the pictures in there. Talk to me about the memories you have.”

Parrish was panicking. But he nodded, looked down at the album, and tried to lift his hand to turn the page. His fingers fumbled, hand falling back onto the sheets. A shaky breath, scared and confused, escaped his lips.

“It’s alright. Here. Can I…?”

Parrish nodded. The Sheriff got onto the bed, sat beside him. He was careful that their sides didn’t touch, because then Parrish would feel the unnatural warmth, and he’d have questions. He might even do something drastic.

He took the album and held it in his lap. He opened it; each page had one polaroid displayed on it, and the first was Parrish with his parents.

“Mom. And dad.” Parrish smiled.

“Can you tell me their names?”

“Deanna Parrish and Robert Parrish.”

“What happened to them?”

Parrish shook his head a little, eyes softening at the edges, smile becoming sad. “They were older parents. By the time I was twenty, they were in their seventies. A heart attack got dad. Cancer got mom.”

“I’m sorry.” Sheriff Stilinski said it because it was instinct, but Parrish laughed under his breath.

“They believed in God, so they never feared death. Even in the end, mom was dignified. She slipped away. Natural as anything.” He gazed at the photograph, and the Sheriff noticed, with satisfaction, that his eyes were growing unfocussed as he recalled memories. That was good. That was a success.

“And this one?”

Parrish looked at the next photograph. It was him, again, this time in a school uniform. He was smiling widely, several teeth missing, gawky and thin.

“Man, that’s me!” Parrish laughed heartily. “I was in junior high then. What a skinny guy I was.”

The Sheriff turned the page, smiling. More photos of Parrish in his school uniform. As each photo was taken, he grew a little taller, became more defined. His bowl cuts also started to disappear, until the boy on the page started to resemble the man sitting beside the Sheriff.

“That was my best friend,” Parrish said, gesturing weakly to an older boy with blonde hair, “, Jeremy.”

“What can you tell me about him?”

Parrish’s expression closed off immediately. “Turn the page.”

The Sheriff did.

The first picture was the both of them side by side, wearing patterned army garb that looked new and fresh. They were smiling with youthful abandon, and Jeremy had an arm thrown over Parrish’s shoulder. There was another boy with them; he was shorter, with a sharp face and dark flat hair.

In the next photograph, the other boy was gone. It was just Parrish and Jeremy, standing side-by-side, saluting next to a coffin that had the American flag draped over it.

The Sheriff looked up at Parrish. His expression was angry.

“Two years in the army. They told us we were exemplary. We were picked for a special mission into Afghanistan, to diffuse a new kind of bomb that terrorists were testing. I was the explosives expert. Jeremy and August were tasked with keeping me alive at all costs. I went in thinking we were special. But I got out knowing the truth; we were _expendable._ That’s why they assigned that detail to us.”

Sheriff Stilinski remembered what Parrish had said before. _I was with August. That’s August Chambers, sir._

So it had been true.

“He gave his life to save mine.”

The Sheriff, upset by his bitter expression, reached over, laid his hand on top of Parrish’s. He hadn’t thought the motion through. The second their skin touched, Parrish’s head jerked up, eyes wide with shock.

_Shit._

“What,” he breathed. The Sheriff jerked his hand away.

“You’ve got a fever. That’s why your skin feels so hot.” He cleared his throat, and turned the next page in the album. _Idiot,_ he thought. _You goddamn idiot._

Parrish stared at him for a little while longer, but eventually relented, looking down at the album. The next two pictures were of Jeremy, and they weren’t polaroids. They were digital. One was Jeremy, lying on his back on a beach, shirtless. He was wearing his dog tags and they glinted in the sun. He was smiling happily, a far cry from the misery of the last photograph. The next one displayed was Jeremy sitting at a café table, wearing mirroring aviator sunglasses. Parrish was reflected in the lens, a warped image holding a camera.

“I took these ones.” Parrish said softly. “We stuck together, after August died. Honourably discharged. It was a secret mission, so it was a sealed file, which is why it wouldn’t have shown up when you checked my history. We even got counselling and compensation for psychological trauma.” He smiled ruefully. “I actually went to the sessions.”

“And Jeremy?”

“He thought it was,” Parrish hesitated, “well, excuse me, sir, but he thought it was bullshit.”

The Sheriff chuckled. “You swear all you want, Parrish. I don’t mind.”

“Isn’t this weird, sir? You’re my boss.”

“Like I said, you’ve been at Beacon Hills for longer than you remember.”

Parrish went silent for a beat. The Sheriff looked up at him, which he immediately regretted, because Parrish’s next question was displayed plainly on his face. Again. Why did he have to keep misinterpreting this the exact same way?

“Do you mean we’re in a-”

“ _No._ We aren’t in a relationship.”

Parrish raised an eyebrow. “…Have I asked you that before?”

The Sheriff sighed. Exasperation was something he was getting very used to. “You do tend to jump to conclusions, yeah. Let’s get back to this- tell me what happened to Jeremy.”

“Turn the page and find out.”

The Sheriff did. There were two wedding shots; one of Jeremy with a beautiful blonde bride, and one of him with Parrish, who appeared to be his best man. In the photo, Parrish was unhappy, glaring at the camera.

“He got married?”

“Yeah,” Parrish said ruefully, “All his years with me, and everything we went through together, and he just up and leaves me for ‘the normal life’.”

_All his years with me._

Meaning Parrish was into men. Sheriff Stilinski couldn’t deny that the information shocked him, but he reminded himself that it wouldn’t matter, even after Parrish regained his sanity. He wouldn’t be interested in an old man.

“Is he still alive?”

“I don’t know.” Parrish’s tone was spiteful, and still managed to carry vitriol even when he yawned widely. “I think he had kids a while ago.”

The Sheriff turned the next page. They were nearing the end; similar to his solitary household, it seemed Parrish’s life was full of absences. These two photos were of Parrish in a policeman’s outfit, dark blue- from his previous station in Beacon County, the Sheriff realised. In the first, he was standing alone, and in the second, he was standing with a red-haired woman.

“My partner. Kelly Nichols.” Parrish smiled fondly. “She was the fiercest person you’ve ever met. I really missed her when I transferred here. Not that…” he yawned again, this time steadying himself before he could continue speaking, “…Not that I remember why I came here.”

The Sheriff turned the page, figuring Parrish needed to sleep now. There was one picture; Parrish in his Beacon Hills Deputy uniform. The next page was empty.

“More memories to make yet,” Parrish drawled, voice tired. “Hey, Sheriff, I think I’m…”

“…tired. Yeah, you need to sleep.” He put the album back on the bedside table and turned to help Parrish lie down. When his hands touched Parrish’s shoulder, Parrish’s eyes drifting eyes focussed, and he looked up with clarity.

“It feels good. When your hands are on me.” He breathed out slowly. “Why is that?”

 _Why indeed._ “Because you’re sick.”

The Sheriff moved him further down the bed, ignoring the tightness in his throat. There was a part of him, the same part that burned inside him, that became nauseated when he thought of leaving Parrish’s side. Parrish stared up at him, dazed, staring until he couldn’t keep his eyes open any more.

When he finally fell asleep, the Sheriff sat on the chair, and put his head in his hands.

_What the hell is happening?_

 

***

 

The Sheriff was asleep when Parrish started screaming.

“No! No! Stop!”

He jerked awake, heart beating fast- Parrish was lying on his back, thrashing, tossing his head from side to side, punching out at invisible people. His cheeks were wet with tears, his face tight with terror and desperation. The Sheriff did the same as he had for Stiles; he got behind Parrish, where he wouldn’t be hit by swinging fists, and held him tight.

“Stop it! It’s not my fault! _Stop it!”_

“You’re okay, you’re okay-”

“It’s not,” Parrish kept fighting, kicking out, crying, loud sobs breaking apart his words, “It’s not my fault, I’m sorry, I’m sorry-”

“Shh. Shh.” He kept one arm tight around Parrish, lifted the other to stroke his hair. Parrish  kept crying, but he stopped struggling.

“No, no, no, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it-”

“You’re alright. You’re alright.”

“I couldn’t save you,” Parrish breathed hysterically, “I couldn’t save you, and now you’re dead, and it’s my fault, it’s all my fault-”

“It wasn’t your fault. You hear me, Parrish? It wasn’t your fault that August Chambers died.”

Parrish kept sobbing, insisting that he was to blame. He began to fight again, but the Sheriff held on with all his might, stroking Parrish’s hair and telling him that it wasn’t his fault, that everything was going to be alright, that the pain would go away, that he was sorry, he was so sorry Parrish was suffering like this.

Parrish went limp, eventually. He was still quietly crying.

“I didn’t think,” he whispered, “I didn’t think it’d be this bad when I took the dementia.”

The Sheriff, shocked by his words, held him tighter. Parrish’s back was warm against his chest. The room was dark, and they were a small, terrified huddle of heat. “I’m sorry. It’ll be over soon.”

Parrish’s head fell back onto his shoulder, and he let out a long breath, face still wet with tears.

“I’m so tired.” His voice broke on the last word. “God, Sheriff, I’m so…”

“Then sleep.” Without thinking, without rationalising, the Sheriff turned his face into Parrish’s neck, kissed the skin there softly. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Fear froze him. _What did I just do?_

Parrish turned his head and returned the kiss, softly pressing his lips onto the Sheriff’s jaw. Fear, as Parrish’s breath warmed his neck, became sheer and utter confusion.

“Don’t leave,” Parrish breathed.

The Sheriff nodded, heart pounding in his chest. _This is wrong. Parrish isn’t in his right mind. I need to get out of here._

But he knew he could never do that. This fire between them, this thing, it was supernatural. Somehow, Parrish had connected to him- and he knew, without any need for investigation, that this bond was unbreakable. He could feel Parrish against him, could feel the flames seeping between their bodies, and he knew there was no turning back from this.

Parrish’s breath huffed out. He was fast asleep. The Sheriff adjusted his hold on him, tilted his head back to rest against the headboard, and stared at the ceiling as if it could give him answers.

 

***

 

When he woke up, he was still holding Parrish.

The Sheriff negotiated his way out from behind him, laying him down on the bed. He looked at Parrish and thought, _what the hell has happened here?_

He reached up, put a hand flat on his own chest. It seemed the fire was shimmering against his palm, warming his skin through the fabric of his t shirt- as if it were really there, as if he were really burning.

He was not a religious man. He did not have faith in things he did not understand, and could not see.

But he believed in this.

He stared at Parrish, remembering. His lips against Parrish’s neck, Parrish kissing his jaw in return. His jaw tightened with self-directed anger.

_I shouldn’t have done what I did. He saved my son’s life, and here I am, repaying him by kissing him when he’s too delirious to even understand what’s happening._

Disgust filled him, and he curled his lip, drowning out thoughts of Parrish’s cognizance at the time- thoughts that whispered, maybe, maybe he’d known what he was doing.

_No. No, this is wrong. This has to stop now._

Hands closed around his neck.

The Sheriff jolted out of his thoughts, unprepared- he reached for a gun that wasn’t there, right hand grasping at his hip uselessly, his left hand gripping the wrist of the hand that held his throat.

“Go quietly, Sheriff,” a voice hissed, breath hot against his ear as his oxygen was cut off and the world grew dimmer, “an’ maybe you ain’t gonna get hurt.”

He struggled, kicking backwards, but whoever was behind him, they were strong, and they had an iron grip on his neck. He saw, through a dimming vision, someone reaching for Parrish, dragging him off the bed. They gripped him under the arms, and someone else took his legs. The Sheriff fought viciously, but he was growing weaker, and the man behind him wasn’t letting go.

“We ain’t here for you. Lie th’ fuck down an’ stop strugglin’.”

He fought. He fought until he couldn’t, and he was on the floor.

He watched Parrish being carried away.

Then he didn’t see anything at all.


	9. Chapter 9

SCOTT MCCALL

 

They were all having lunch when it happened.

He had turned to Lydia, wondering why she hadn’t responded to a question, and she’d been staring fixedly into space, eyes vacant and empty- seeing something that wasn’t there, listening to voices no one could hear. Everyone else looked at her too, and a change swept through the air; Lydia was hearing voices.

Which meant someone was dying.

“Lydia?” Stiles asked. He took her shoulder in one hand, tried to look her in the eye. “Lydia, what do you hear?”

She blinked twice, mouth opening. “Scott. Your phone.”

“…What about it?”

“Look at it.”

Scott took out his phone. It had been on silent. His eyes widened; there were ten missed called from Deaton.

“They’ve come for Parrish.” Lydia looked up at him, eyes suddenly brimming with tears. “We need to get back to his house. They’ve come for him.”

“What?” Stiles demanded. “Lydia, what’re you talking about?”

Scott dialled Deaton. He put the phone on loudspeaker, and started to run towards where his car was parked. The others followed.

 _“Scott?”_ Deaton’s voice was breathy, gasps of static noise.

“Deaton, what’s going on?” Scott demanded.

 _“A pack. They’re here for Parrish. To kidnap him-”_ Deaton’s voice rose in pitch, and he let out a sharp groan of pain. _“They came for me first. To get information.”_

“Are you okay?”

Deaton laughed helplessly. _“They cut off two of my fingers.”_

Scott stopped in his tracks, and he felt Kira bump into him. The others all had the same expression on their faces; horror.

_“But it’s my non-dominant hand, so it could be worse.”_

“I’ll send Liam to protect you.”

 _“No point. They’re gone. I told them…”_ Shame filled Deaton’s voice. _“…I told them what they wanted to know.”_

“…You told them who the Phoenix was.” Lydia was still staring into the distance, her eyes becoming glassy with tears. She spoke as if in a trance. “You told them it was Parrish. You told them where he lived.”

 _“I did.”_ Deaton’s voice shook, in a way Scott had never heard before. _“I’m sorry.”_

 

***

 

They got to the house. They were too late.

The Sheriff was collapsed on the floor, purple bruises already thick on his throat. Stiles knelt beside him, out of his mind with panic, trying to turn him over, trying to wake him up- but he wasn’t responding.

“His heart isn’t beating,” Lydia whispered.

Kira pushed them all aside. Stiles’ back made a dent in the wall when he landed against it. She turned the Sheriff over, pressed her palms to his chest, and sent volts through his body. He opened his eyes, taking in a lungful of air, lifting off the ground and trembling as the electricity hummed through his heart.

Stiles cried on his dad’s shoulder.

“We need to call the police.” Lydia’s hands were clenched against her chest, fingers knotted, eyes still unseeing. “We need to. We’ve got a missing Deputy and an injured Sheriff. We need the police, and an ambulance.”

Scott nodded. She was right, but it wasn’t that simple. “What if they find Parrish while he’s regenerating? He’ll transform, and when he does, he’ll grow wings. If someone sees-”

“Alphas can take memories.” Lydia breathed. “You can make people forget.”

“Not necessarily, not if they get there first and they file a report, or call it in-”

“Then,” Lydia spoke through her teeth, glaring at him with blazing eyes, “we better beat them to it.”

The Sheriff gasped and twitched, eyes squeezed shut. Scott looked at him, and knew Lydia was right.

He got out his phone and dialled 911.

 

 

 

KIRA YUKIMURA

 

Stiles went to the hospital with his dad, and they went to the police station to give statements. They’d agreed on the story before the 911 call had been answered, and the ride to the station gave Kira ample time to stare at her hands, a mix of awe and admiration filling her.

She had saved the Sheriff’s life.

Kira knew she wasn’t like Scott, or Malia, Liam, or even Lydia; she wasn’t good at this. She didn’t know how to control the spirit inside her, and a sword felt satisfying in her hands but not reassuring. She knew she’d get better, but constantly being beaten was taking a toll on her confidence. She couldn’t risk her friends’ lives because she wasn’t good enough.

But, tonight, she _had_ been good enough.

She tried to keep the smile off her face, because they were in a police car and were automatically suspects in both an assault and an abduction- but she couldn’t help the way her lips twitched at the corners and her eyes brightened, a thrill of delight blooming in her chest.

 _Finally,_ she thought, _I’m good enough._

 

 

MALIA TATE

 

They said Stiles had insisted on stopping by to see how his dad, and Parrish, were, during lunch. They said that the Sheriff had been looking after Parrish because he was ill. The Deputy questioning them had narrowed their eyes and said, “As far as I know, the Sheriff isn’t that close with any of his Deputies. A bit unprofessional, wouldn’t you say?”

They said they didn’t think so, no. They also didn’t elaborate on why they had all chosen to go to Parrish’s house- avoiding study seemed as believable an excuse as any.

As far as Malia was concerned, this was a waste of time. Sheriff Stilinski would be fine, and Deputy Parrish _couldn’t die-_ why bother planning a rescue mission for someone who didn’t need one?

She wanted to go home. She wanted to climb out the window with her mother and let the desert claim her once again. She wanted to tear off her clothes and her skin and find the fur that hid underneath. Indecision had, at first, torn at her; she really did love Stiles. She loved the person she was when she was with him. She loved that he made her a _person_ at all. At first, she’d thought she might stay with her mother for a while, and return to the pack once she’d had her fill of the good life. But she knew that, once she left, she’d be gone for good.

There would be no coming back this time.

After the questioning was finished, and Liam had joined the party, they went to the Animal Clinic to see Dr. Deaton. The man was clutching left hand, which was bandaged up. Malia wrinkled her nose, trying to pretend that the smell of blood was repellant.

She wanted to rip his arm off.

Scott explained the situation to Deaton. Deaton nodded, movements sluggish, and it was quite apparent he was on a number of painkillers and antibiotics. Scott began to detail his plan of tracking the scents of the abductors through Beacon Hills, but Deaton held up a hand.

“I suggest,” he said as he slowly sat, breathing in, “you rethink that. The situation is more complicated than you imagine.”

Scott frowned. “Why?”

“Because they weren’t supernatural. They were human. How else do you think they got in here? I certainly didn’t let them in.”

Malia nodded. “Well, easy. Stopping a few humans won’t be hard.”

“But what would a bunch of humans want with a _Phoenix_?” Asked Liam, confused.

“Phoenixes can heal supernaturals _and_ humans. I imagine a great deal of humans would want the aid of a creature who can perpetually fix wounds.” Deaton sighed, the usual calmness of his voice turned to a stoned exhaustion. “What interests me is how they knew a Phoenix was here.”

“Do you think someone told them?” Lydia asked.

“Aside from me?” Deaton laughed humorlessly. “I would say so. Phoenixes have great power, and it wouldn’t surprise me if a supernatural sensed him.”

“So.” Malia asked impatiently, tired of this conversation going nowhere. If only they got on with it, they could get to saving him, and she could get back to Stiles. “Why is a supernatural making humans do his dirty work?”

“I think Lillian White might be able to answer that question.”

“Who?”

“The other Phoenix. I think she knows something more than she’s telling.”

 

 

 

RANKIN

 

He watched as they dragged the Phoenix in. It was a man, which surprised him; all the Phoenixes he had met had been female. Which made this particular one a rarity, even more that he was already.

They dropped him at Rankin’s feet.

The man was gagged, hands tied behind his back, feet also bound. He was well muscled, for a white boy- and very pretty, Rankin noted. But he had a black eye, and blood from a split lip was staining the gag. Rankin sighed with exasperation.

“What the hell is this?” He gestured at the unconscious Phoenix. “I said he wasn’t to be harmed!”

Daniels, a big black guy with a brain the size of a walnut, squinted in thought. Johnson, who was blonde, wiry, and smaller- but cleverer- looked appropriately chastised. Daniels’ brother, Jerry, was also smart, but dumb enough that Rankin could keep him in check. They were all big Texan boys, who had done time for one crime or another; Rankin favored brawn over brains, when it came to his pack, and he didn’t need intelligent humans to do his bidding.

But he did need ones that followed his orders.

“He started screamin’, sir,” said Jerry, “wouldn’ stop.”

“Yeah,” Johnson added, “was shakin’ an’ all, like seizures or sumshit.”

“Had to knock ‘im out, boss. Couldn’a gotten ‘im outta there otherwise.”

Daniels, as per usual, had nothing to say on the matter.

Rankin stood, slowly. They all watched him with respect and fear; he felt satisfaction. These idiots thought he could turn them into werewolves too. They didn’t know he was just a Beta, and could do no such thing. He looked at them with his blue eyes, bared his teeth, and growled; they lowered their heads, genuinely afraid, and he smiled viciously.

There was nothing quite like control.

“Tie him up.” He ordered. “And _be careful._ ”

There were mutters of, ‘yes sir’, and, ‘of course, sir, sorry sir’. He watched them leave with a growing sense of power.

Fuck a wolf pack. He could have an army of humans.


	10. Chapter 10

SCOTT MCCALL

 

Seeing Deaton like this made him furious. He’d insisted that he take some of Deaton’s pain, but Deaton had waved him away, saying, “You need your strength”, and indicating the amount of painkillers he’d had already.

He dialed Lillian White’s number, and prayed she could help.

The ringing tone sounded. And kept sounding. At ten rings, he frowned, and went to hang up.

“No,” Deaton said, “wait. She’s a bit paranoid.”

He waited. Eventually, she did pick up.

_“Whatever’s happened to your Phoenix, Deaton, I’m not coming to help.”_

Scott raised his eyebrows. Not a good start. “My name is Scott McCall. I’m a friend of Deaton’s.”

There was a pause. _“Scott McCall. The True Alpha. Must be my lucky day. Why do you have Deaton’s phone?”_

 “Because Deaton was just tortured by a pack that came after our Phoenix. They cut off two of his fingers. They nearly killed someone else.”

A longer pause, this time. _“And they have the Phoenix, I take it.”_

“Yes. And we need your help getting him back.”

_“I’m not leaving my pack.”_

“Why?” Scott demanded, anger building in his stomach. He looked at Deaton and it turned to fury. “Why won’t you help us? From what I’ve heard, there are hardly any Phoenixes at all- how can you just condemn him?”

Everyone was looking at him nervously. He took a deep breath and calmed himself. His eyes turned back to brown.

_“It’s not my concern.”_

“You’re connected to him! You can sense where he is! You could lead us right to him!”

_“I can’t leave my pack.”_

“How can you be so-”

Lydia grabbed the phone. Scott stared at her, shocked, but she had that look in her eyes again; the one that said she knew something.

“You know who they are.” Lydia said. “You know who took Parrish.”

For a long while, there was no reply.

“They took you too, didn’t they, Lillian?” Lydia spoke slowly, in a way that meant she had no doubt this was the truth. “You know their names.”

_“…I’m guessing you’re the Banshee.”_

“Tell us who they are, Lillian. I know you’re scared, but after today, you won’t have to be. Give us the information, and we’ll eliminate the pack.”

Lillian took a shaky, unsteady breath, and Scott felt sympathy this time, not anger. She was terrified. _“The leader is called Rankin. Black guy. He’s a beta.”_

Lydia frowned, and Scott felt the same confusion. “A beta?”

_“He recruits humans. They think he can turn them into werewolves. If they eventually realize otherwise, he kills them.”_

“That’s why he wants a Phoenix,” Lydia breathed, “because otherwise his pack wouldn’t survive.”

 _“He’s horrible.”_ Lillian’s voice shook. _“I’m not like other supernaturals. I’m a healer, not a fighter. I couldn’t escape. They made me heal them, and I didn’t have my Protector there to help me-”_

“Which is exactly how our Phoenix is feeling, right now.” Lydia’s voice hardened. “You need to tell us more.”

There was a helpless sob. _“They’re in Beacon Hills, I think.”_

“We’d have sensed that they were here.”

_“No. He hides. He conceals his scent with chemicals.”_

“You’re sure he’s here?”

 _“No. No, I- I just stay with my pack.”_ Lillian took a deep breath, and sniffed. _“The person that was looking after your Phoenix. I imagine they’re his Protector now. As soon as you can, get the two of them together. It might just save your Phoenix’s mind.”_

Scott nodded curtly, but decided that wasn’t highest on his list of priorities. He gestured for Lydia to give the phone back.

“What can you tell us about his healing process?” He asked. “Given the dementia is killing him, what will happen if they wound him too? Will it all heal when he regenerates?”

 _“Maybe. For me, it would, but… This is his first regeneration, and he shouldn’t have taken on something as colossal as dementia for his first time healing. He will regenerate, but I think his body will focus on the dementia, rather than any superficial injuries.”_ Her voice was still shaky. _“So you might find him with a few cuts and bruises. Rankin likes to beat up prisoners.”_

“Will those heal after he regenerates?”

_“He might need to heal someone else to start the process, but yes, eventually.”_

“Is there anything else you can tell us?”

_“No. I’m sorry.”_

She hung up.

“So,” Liam said, his eyes already yellow, “where do we start?”

 

 

 

DEPUTY JORDAN PARRISH

 

Jordan could feel the man’s pain.

The golden man, the one who had touched him and left magic in his wake, and spoke to calm the screaming noise his head-  that man was in trouble. Jordan could feel hands on a neck, blood pumping with panicked intensity, fingers twitching on a floor, eyes blurring and rolling backwards- he could feel it all, and it terrified him. He tried to escape. He tried to get to the man. But hands grabbed him, and pulled him away. Cruel hands. They left pain on him, under his skin, pounding blood vessels under his eyes and in his lip. He couldn’t escape. He couldn’t get to him, to help him, and he screamed in agony. His own agony. The man’s agony.

The cruel hands hit him again, and he didn’t struggle any more.

 

***

 

He opened his eyes.

There was someone in front of him. They had sick blue eyes, and Jordan could see cruelty in them. He moved away from the stranger, but there was metal on his wrists and on his ankles, and the words he spoke were turned to senseless noise by the fabric tied hard across his face, cutting into his cheeks.

The man spoke. It hurt Jordan’s ears, and he turned his head away, eyes closed, trying to make it stop. He asked him to stop, but his words wouldn’t form.

He wanted the golden man. He wanted to be safe again, with him.

But, instead, there was a hand on his face, gripping his jaw, trying to make him look into that vile blue and see the fury there. He whimpered, because he wasn’t strong enough to resist, closing his eyes in one last attempt to blind himself to that cruelty.

The stranger hit him.

Jordan howled in pain. The stranger didn’t like that, and hit him again.

He cried. Everything hurt. He just wanted to go home. He just wanted to be in the hands of that man, the one he didn’t know the name of, the one he trusted despite all the reasons he shouldn’t. He knew he was a person, with memories, and a life lived- he knew he had forgotten. But he couldn’t bring himself to care about anything other than the man with healing hands.

Where was he?

 

 

 

RANKIN

 

He’d tried not to lose his temper with the little fucker, but it was impossible. As pretty as he was, he was absolutely insane, and had started screaming and wailing almost immediately after waking up.

“Stop fucking screaming! Shut up!”

The Phoenix jerked away from him, eyes squeezed shut, so Rankin backhanded him across the face. He hated admitting that the goons were right but, in this case, it seemed like he had no choice. If this really was a Phoenix, he was seriously defective.

“Look at me! You piece of shit, look at me!”

He grabbed the guy’s face, for the second time, pressing his thumbs above his eyelids to keep his eyes open. Wide, terrified, hazel eyes looked back, and Rankin got angrier. That fucking vet had lied. An acidic smell hit the air, and Rankin’s eyes widened in disbelief.

“He fucking pissed himself,” he said aloud, dumbfounded. So much for an invincible Phoenix. He kept hold of the guy’s head with one hand, drew back his other arm and punched him hard between the eyes.

He stood, lips drawn back to expose sharp teeth, watching with pointless satisfaction as the guy went limp, head falling forward. He really did have a nice face. Shame to mark it up- though Rankin would admit to enjoying that. If he really was a Phoenix, it wouldn’t matter anyway.

He decided, either way, he needed to pay that vet a visit himself.

 

 

 

SHERIFF JOHN STILINSKI

 

He didn’t want to be here. He was _fine._ His heart might’ve stopped, but he was alright now- Kira, Scott’s girlfriend, had apparently brought him back. His second priority was getting out and thanking her- first was finding Parrish and saving him. According to Stiles, an entire day had passed since he’d been kidnapped, and the Sheriff could feel Parrish’s pain and panic, distant but unmistakable, like some kind of burning, glowing beacon of distress. Scott and Malia hadn’t been unable to catch his scent. His kidnapper, a werewolf of some description, had used strong chemicals to mask scents.

He _needed_ to get out. He _needed_ to help Parrish.

But he knew he had to get past the scrutiny of his own police department first.

He’d written out a statement, as he was unable to speak; his oesophagus had managed to emerge from the suffocation without being crushed or seriously damaged, but he was in serious pain. Even breathing was something he’d rather not do.

He’d said he was at Parrish’s house because Parrish was ill, and he’d been checking up on him. Stiles, who had been there when he woke up, had whispered the cover story to him in a shaking voice, so the Sheriff wrote that Stiles and his friends had decided to stop by to see how Parrish was doing- and that was why they’d found him after the men had left him injured.

A coincidence, of course.

He wrote that he didn’t know what the men looked like. He wrote that he didn’t know why they’d taken Parrish. He wrote that the men told him to ‘go quietly’, and made it sound like they’d been there for him as well as Parrish. He left out the ‘we’re not here for you’ part.

Stiles was an absolute mess.

The Sheriff held his son’s hand and tried, without words, to tell him that everything would be alright.

He was glad he didn’t have to voice it, because he didn’t believe it himself.

The sedatives they gave him made him sleep, but it was fitful. He dreamed of things he’d never dreamed of before; of golden skin and shining feathers, a head tilted back towards the sky, arms outstretched, a body on fire. He saw a bird flying through the black night, a beacon in the darkness, a star, a comet, a soaring power bound in a human body. He saw a brown back, rolling shoulder blades, tense shoulders. He saw glowing eyes.

He saw a magical man, bound, gagged, scared.

When he woke up, jerking awake, Dr. Deaton was beside him, and Stiles was fast asleep in a padded hospital chair, cuddling into a blanket that Melissa had thrown over him.

“Hello, Sheriff.”

The Sheriff nodded, gesturing to his throat. Deaton smiled empathetically and held up his hand, which was bandaged. The Sheriff’s eyes widened.

“I’m ashamed to say I gave up your Deputy’s location. Not without a struggle, but nonetheless.”

The Sheriff shook his head. _Not your fault._

Deaton sighed and shrugged. “What’s done is done.” He paused, hesitation plain on his face. “I’d like to ask you something, if I may. Or,” he smiled, “I’d like to tell you something.”

The Sheriff nodded.

“I know that Deputy Parrish responded to you particularly well. When Scott’s pack tried to see him, he panicked. The second you began to comfort him, he calmed. Physical contact had an immediate effect.”

The Sheriff nodded slowly. On the notepad on his lap, which Melissa had given him, he wrote, _dementia. wife was the same_

Deaton shook his head. “No. It was more than that.”

The Sheriff drew a single question mark.

“Phoenixes, though they may have extraordinary healing abilities, do feel pain. Extreme amounts of it, in fact. They evolved to bond with someone, who becomes their Protector; a person, human or supernatural, who has the ability to take away their pain and ease them into death when they’re dying. I believe- and am certain, in fact,” Deaton sat forward, “that you are Deputy Parrish’s Protector.”

The expression on Deaton’s face suggested he expected the Sheriff to argue, or be shocked. But the Sheriff thought of his hands on Parrish’s, thumbs over his knuckles, a hand on his shoulder- he thought of the fire when their skin touched, the way Parrish had relaxed whenever he was close.

He nodded, wrote, _I know_

Deaton looked surprised. He nodded back, pleased- then, his expression sobered, and he steeled himself to say whatever he needed to next. The Sheriff’s stomach clenched with worry.

“I wasn’t aware of this until Parrish had already healed Stiles, but a Phoenix’s first time healing someone should be of a minor injury. Even small cuts can cause agony, when a Phoenix is unrealised. Letting him heal Stiles… that was my mistake. I should’ve known to recommend he healed someone else first.”

The Sheriff, alarmed, wrote, _is he ok?_

“…It’s best that we have you and he together as soon as possible.”

Avoiding the question. The Sheriff gripped the pen tight. _IS HE OK_

Deaton’s face became mournful. “No. I’m afraid he most certainly is not. In fact… I believe he may be going insane.”


	11. Chapter 11

RANKIN

 

“’e’s fuckin’ crazy, boss.”

Rankin sighed loudly, as he pulled on his leather jacket. Johnson was staring at the maybe-Phoenix with undisguised fascination; the guy on the metal bed frame was unconscious, and had been constantly for hours now. He was either screaming, or sleeping. Didn’t seem like he did anything else.

“Yes, Johnson, I fucking know that.”

“Did ‘e piss ‘imself?”

“Yes.”

“Must be a fuckin’ nutter.” Johnson stepped closer to the Phoenix, hands stowed in his pockets. “Cute, though.”

Rankin felt a snarl of jealousy rising in his throat. Johnson was, among other things, his lover- and betrayal, no matter how minor, would not be tolerated in this pack. He stepped forward and seized Johnson by the throat, pushing him up against a wall.

Johnson’s green eyes went wide with fear, but with something else too. He loved danger and pain- loved it like normal people loved kissing. This was as close to foreplay as Johnson got. How could Rankin have resisted a man like that? They were clearly destined to be together, for as long as Rankin could put up with him.

Rankin leaned in, showing his real teeth, stroking a lock of blonde hair out of Johnson’s face with a curled claw. Johnson swallowed thickly.

“You belong to me.”

Johnson nodded. Rankin released him, and watched as Johnson sagged against the wall.

“Was just sayin’, boss. Wasn’ gonna do no more than look.”

“Looking’s more than you’re allowed. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Johnson breathed, smiling slightly. Rankin let him be amused. Didn’t do any harm. Johnson was his.

“I’m going out tonight. You watch him, and leave him alone.”

“What if he starts screamin’, Ranks?”

He slapped Johnson, left claw marks in his cheek. “How many times? Don’t fucking call me that.”

Johnson nodded, eyes shining. “Yes, sir.”

It was frustrating, but fun, having Johnson around. Rankin decided he’d have to kill him soon, before he got too comfortable questioning authority.

“If he starts screaming again, hit him.”

He gave Johnson a deep, biting, kiss- leaving Johnson’s lips swollen and bleeding and smiling- and left. He decided he’d go to a bar before he met up with that vet. Maybe find a pretty boy and have his fill.

 

LIAM DUNBAR

 

He hated being useless.

Not that he was useless, exactly. He was guarding Deaton, while Scott and Malia trawled every inch of Beacon Hills, trying to catch Parrish’s scent and find him. So far, going by the texts he’d received, they hadn’t found anything. Liam sat back in the chair at Deaton’s desk, sighing. Lydia and Kira were there too, which was nice, but he wanted to go out and join the hunt. He didn’t even know this Parrish guy, but his point of view was very simple; he’d saved Stiles, therefore he must be good. Liam wanted to help.

Deaton was lying on a bed that was usually used for patients- namely, animals. He was barely awake.

“You’re thinking too much, young Liam,” he muttered.

“Don’t call me young.” Liam replied shortly. “I’m not a kid.”

Deaton smiled, his eyes closed. “Oh, the temper of youth.”

“What’d I just say?” Liam asked, incredulously.

“Just because you’re young doesn’t stop me respecting you, Liam.”

 _…Oh._ Liam couldn’t stop himself from smiling. There were a lot of adults he didn’t like, but this Deaton guy seemed alright. “Okay.”

Lydia and Kira seemed amused, but Liam didn’t mind. Lydia was really lovely to look at, and she was smart too. He liked it when she paid attention to him. And Kira was just plain gorgeous; he knew she was way out of his league.

“The men who came for me were very big, Liam.” Deaton murmured. “Very strong.”

“So?”

“I just wanted to warn you.”

“I can take them.” Liam was certain of that. He had been fighting grown men even before he became a werewolf. “Don’t worry, Mr Deaton. I’ll protect you.”

Deaton smiled to himself, muttered, “My hero”. His breathing evened out, and he fell asleep.

Liam grinned. Lydia reached over and patted his hand. He took it as a congratulatory motion.

 

JOHNSON

 

He was bored.

Rankin had teased him and then taken off, no doubt to go find some barely-of-age guy to have fun with for a night. Johnson didn’t envy whoever they were; Rankin’s sadism might’ve been to Johnson’s taste, but he knew a lot of people didn’t enjoy being hit, or being kicked, or being strangled, or being beaten up in general.

He couldn’t imagine why.

Johnson wasn’t nearly as stupid as he let Rankin think. He knew Rankin would kill him, sooner rather than later- he was looking forward to it, and had a number of highly specific fantasies he liked to entertain about how Rankin would do it. With his hands, Johnson hoped. While they were in bed together.

Daniels and Jerry _were_ actually dumb enough to believe that Rankin would turn them into werewolves, but Johnson knew better. Men like Rankin craved power, and turning his human followers would mean he would lose that power. The day Daniels and Jerry finally worked that out was the day they died.

There were always more humans.

Johnson considered their prisoner with interest. He didn’t know why Rankin wanted him, but it wasn’t just because he was a nice catch. This guy was something supernatural, like Rankin- though, from what Johnson had seen, he didn’t seem to be doing much at all.

Johnson looked at the man’s closed eyes, the swelling bruising across his face, the blood on his lips, and the sharp line of his jaw. He smiled; there was nothing he liked more than a pretty man all beaten up. He knew Rankin felt the same way. Maybe, if this guy stuck around, they’d have some fun together.

He was shocked Rankin hadn’t tried something already.

He stood, deciding he was hungry enough to go and make Daniels get him something, when a claw wrapped itself around the back of his neck and pushed him into the floor.

He saw stars, and rolled onto his back- when he saw that his attacker wasn’t Rankin, the excitement died in his stomach, and was replaced with dread.

The kid wouldn’t have threatened him otherwise; he was in good shape, fairly tall, but didn’t look all that threatening. But his _eyes_. They were red, as red as the fucking fires of hell, and Johnson went as still as he could. Rankin was nothing next to this guy.

He heard yells from the other room, and two bodies hitting the floor. Immediately, a woman entered the room- she had eyes like Rankin, blue as gemstones, but she walked slowly, with a wide grin on her face. She would kill him, and she would do it without breaking a sweat. She’d probably just killed Daniels and Jerry too.

“Let me at him.” She growled, but the red-eyed werewolf shook his head.

“Make sure Parrish is alright.”

She snarled at him, but went and did as he said.

Johnson went still as death as the red-eyed wolf bent down and put one clawed hand on his chest. Johnson breathed shallowly, feeling the sharp points cut through the fabric and into his skin. He was turned on, no denying it, but he’d have preferred his death be fun as well as painful.

“Do you know what I am?”

Johnson shook his head.

“I’m an Alpha. That man you’re following is a Beta. He can’t turn you into a werewolf. He’s lying to you.”

Johnson nodded. He wasn’t shocked. “Okay.”

“Where is he?”

Johnson considered his options. He wasn’t all that scared of Rankin, and he sure as hell didn’t owe him anything, much less his life.

“He’s talking to that vet. The one who led us to the prisoner.”

The Alpha’s face went all hard, and angry, and Johnson thought, _This is it, I’m going to die._

“Are there any more of you following him, aside from the three of you?”

“No. He killed the rest.”

“Hey,” the woman werewolf said, “he’s still breathing.”

The Alpha nodded at her, and then turned his glowing eyes back to Johnson. “You’ve been very cooperative. Thank you.”

Johnson, weirded out by the politeness, slowly said, “You’re… welcome?”

“Oh, for god’s sake, Scott,” he heard the woman say. He felt her palm on his forehead before she smashed the back of his head into the concrete.

Lights danced in front of his eyes, and he smiled, thinking, _god, I love this feeling._ Unconsciousness claimed him, and he went willingly.


	12. Chapter 12

SCOTT MCCALL

 

He raised his eyebrows at the man on the ground in front of him. Malia had the same expression on her face.

“I think he enjoyed that.” Malia said, deadpan.

“I think he did.” Scott remembered, suddenly, why they were here- he looked up, to the bed, where Parrish was tied up. He ran to his side, Malia following at a walking pace.

“Parrish? Parrish, can you hear me?”

“His heart’s barely beating, Scott.” Malia held up her hand, claws out. “I say we speed this up a little.”

He looked up at her, alarmed.

“What!” She held her hands out. “If we kill him, he’ll regenerate and be okay again!”

“…I need to call Deaton first.” Scott dug his phone out of his pocket. “Go tie those guys up. We’ll drop them off at Eichen House after this.”

He dialled Deaton, and got Lydia.

_“Hi, Scott.”_

“Hey, Lydia. Is Deaton there?”

_“He’s sleeping, poor guy.”_

“Tell Liam and Kira that the beta in charge of this pack is on his way.”

 _“Okay,”_ Lydia said, alarmed, _“but he won’t be able to get in, will he?”_

“Hopefully not.” Scott said, and hung up.

He stared at Parrish.

By the time Malia was finished restraining the human pack, he’d made his decision.

“What’re we going to do?” Malia asked. “If you can’t do it, I will.”

He shook his head. This was his responsibility. He took the gag out of Parrish’s mouth, but didn’t remove the cuffs. They didn’t know what would happen when he transformed.

“Stand back.”

He took a breath, and exposed his claws.

He buried them in Parrish’s throat.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains violence, and (sort of) graphic descriptions of gore. There is a major character death, albeit a temporary one.

SHERIFF JOHN STILINSKI

 

He woke up, and put his hands against his throat.

He was choking. He couldn’t breathe. The pain overtook him so completely that the heart monitor beside his bed erupted with alarms and beeping sounds. He gagged, choking on blood that he couldn’t taste, throat constricting around claws that weren’t there.

“Dad? Dad!” Stiles pawed at his shoulder and chest, trying to calm him. “Dad, you’re okay! Dad! _Someone help me!_ Dad! Calm down, dad, please, just calm down- _someone!”_

A nurse came. She tried to calm him, but he was dying. He could feel the life leaving him, and he was fighting it with all his might. She slid a sedative into the IV, and he heard her say, ‘it’s just panic’, to Stiles, but he realised what this was. It was someone else’s pain.

He reached for Stiles, the drugs already making him dizzy.

“Dad?” Stiles asked, tears tracks down his face. “Dad, look at me. Dad?”

“Parrish,” He gasped, “Parrish,”

Confusion filled Stiles’ face. It was the last thing the Sheriff saw before he went under.

 

 

 

SCOTT MCCALL

 

He yanked his hand out of Parrish’s throat, and stared at the thick, globular blood that saturated his skin up to his wrist, pieces of flesh and oesophagus among the red. Overcome by the sudden urge to vomit, he wiped the blood on his jeans.

“You okay?” Malia asked. He shook his head, trying to swallow, the taste of bile creeping up the back of his throat.

Parrish was lying still as death, a gaping hole in his throat. Blood was slowly dripping down his neck, pooling on the concrete floor in splatters. Scott couldn’t hear a heartbeat. He couldn’t hear breathing.

 _I killed him,_ he thought, _oh my god, I just murdered someone._

He tried to remind himself that it had been done within reason. That he was saving Parrish. But the seconds stretched on, and he started to become lightheaded with fear.

“Shouldn’t he be waking up?” Malia asked. Even she, as accustomed to violence as she was, seemed worried. “…Scott?”

“I-” He wanted to be sick. “I don’t- I don’t know.”

Parrish didn’t move. Scott looked at his watch, started counting.

Two minutes and fifteen seconds.

That was how long it took. And it was the most horrifying wait Scott had ever experienced.

Parrish’s eyes flew open, and they both jumped back. His eyes were devoid of iris, or pupil- they were shining, luminescent orange. Scott and Malia watched in disgusted fascination as his throat slowly closed up, the wound healing itself like a zip closing; skin came together like strings entwining, until it was flat and smooth, unbroken and unharmed except for the blood and organ still dripping onto the floor.

He arched off the metal frame, and suddenly he was on fire. They backed away more, until their backs hit a wall. The room was thrown into shadow, moving and wild, the fire hurting their eyes and making them squint as it blazed bright in the dark room. It moved, like a living thing, stretching out into empty space, seeming to take shape; Scott remembered that Phoenixes grew wings.

But the fire died. Wings never formed. Parrish collapsed back onto the metal, his face still bruised and bleeding.

They watched with wide eyes, waiting for something to happen next.

Nothing happened.

Slowly, Scott approached. He could hear a heartbeat. He could hear breathing. But Parrish wasn’t moving.

“…D,” He stuttered, fear choking him, “Deputy Parrish…?”

No response.

He reached over, touched Parrish’s shoulder. When that didn’t work, he touched his forehead, and then- gathering an enormity of courage- he pulled back an eyelid to see what colour his eyes were. He could see a hazel iris, rolled back.

“There’s still something wrong with him,” Malia said.

“I think you’re right.”

“What do we do?”

Scott had no idea. He had just killed a man- a good man. The man who had saved Stiles. And now that man was- was what? Scott had no idea. Was he dying? Did he still have the dementia? Why hadn’t the regeneration worked?

“We can’t take him to Deaton. I won’t put that on him. Not after what he’s been through.”

“So what do we do?” Malia demanded. “Take him to the hospital? What if he transforms?”

Scott set his jaw, and pulled out his phone. He dialled Lillian White.

 

 

 

LILLIAN WHITE

 

She sat and stared at her phone. It was ringing. Caller ID said it was the True Alpha.

They’d found their Phoenix, most likely. He’d be traumatised, probably catatonic. Healing something of that magnitude, given it was his first time and he’d done so without a Protector, would’ve left him a shell of himself; she couldn’t feel his pain anymore. Instead, she was overcome by a persistent feeling of emptiness, a disconnected mind, a body lost without a consciousness to maintain it.

He was broken.

His only chance would be to reunite with his Protector, or summon the strength to find one. She doubted that strength was in him; if he hadn’t connected with someone by now, he had no hope.

“You don’t have to answer it, Lilly.”

She didn’t look up from the phone. Daniel would always tell her to take the easy way out, to keep herself safe above all others. He was her Protector. It was his job.

“I have to,” her voice shook, and she couldn’t force herself to reach for the phone, “at least to find out whether Rankin’s pack is dead.”

Daniel radiated anger. Not at her; at the situation. At the fact she was being forced to deal with this, confront her abductors once again.

“Do you want me to talk to the True Alpha for you?”

She swallowed. The emptiness was setting her teeth on edge; she wouldn’t be able to sleep until this Phoenix was whole again. She knew that without a doubt.

“I’m a healer, Dan. This is my job.”

With fear, but also with tremendous courage, she answered the call.

 

 

 

SCOTT MCCALL

 

_“Hello?”_

Scott, having begun to loose hope by the tenth ring of the phone, was almost shaking with relief “Lillian, it’s-”

_“The True Alpha, I know. Tell me how your Phoenix is.”_

“He’s regenerated, but he… he didn’t transform.”

She drew in a deep breath. _“Bad. That’s bad.”_

“What do we do? Take him to a hospital?”

_“You’ll have to.”_

“But what if he transforms?”

 _“He won’t have the strength. Probably for quite a while. You need to get him to a hospital- if his heart stops, maybe they can save him. At the very least, they can put him in a coma. But,”_ her voice became serious, determined, _“the most important thing, right now, is that he has a Protector. Does he?”_

“Deaton thinks so.”

_“That’s his last hope.”_

Scott nodded, locking eyes with Malia. He saw that she was worried, and he felt calmed to know that; he reigned in his panic, and decided that he had to be a leader here. He had to take control of this situation. They could save Parrish. They _would_ save Parrish.

They owed him that.

“What else?”

_“Nothing else to it.”_

“Is his dementia healed?”

_“He regenerated, so there’s a ninety percent chance it is healed, but…”_

“But?”

_“It was an incomplete regeneration. I can’t say for sure.”_

“Okay. Okay,” he bit his lip, rolled his tongue in his mouth, scrambling for calmness, “alright. I need to go take care of this. If I call you again, will you pick up?”

She paused, and for a moment, he thought she might say no.

_“Yes. I promise.”_

 

 

 

MELISSA MCCALL

 

It had been a long night.

She’d agreed to take an extra shift, which wasn’t unusual- but she had the extra motivation of wanting to be there if they found Deputy Parrish and he needed medical attention. Scott hadn’t told her much, but she knew he’d be in pretty bad shape. From what she’d heard, he was going to regenerate, and the dementia would disappear.

It sounded like nothing short of a miracle.

It was past midnight when the text came.

_bringing Parrish to the ER. will leave him outside door._

She texted back, _why?_

A reply came, almost immediately; _he’s not ok. Police will be looking for his kidnappers. Dont want to be suspects_

With a weary sigh, feeling dwarfed- as she always did- by the life her son lived, she sent back, _alright. will take care of him_

Fifteen minutes later, there was a shout from one of the other nurses- Mahatma, one of Melissa’s trainees. Melissa ran to the door.

Parrish was lying on the doorstep, on his back. His face was bloodied, and blotched with thick bruising; his lip was cut deeply, and Melissa recognized the wound as having come from an extremely hard punch to the mouth. Between his parted lips she saw bloodied teeth. His arms, limply splayed, were covered in small cuts, as if he’d been pressed against something sharp, or with barbed edges. His wrists and ankles featured rings of bleeding welts- from cuffs, she recognized.

As if that weren’t enough, his eyes were open. He was staring up into space, and he looked dead.

Mahatma was on her knees beside him, two fingers on his pulse, a hand on his chest.

Melissa held her breath. “Is he…?”

“He’s still alive.” Mahatma looked up at Melissa for guidance. “But he’s not responding.”

Melissa turned on her heel, yelled, “I need a gurney!”

 

They got him into a hospital room, cut off his bloodied clothes. The front of his shirt was soaked, so thoroughly drenched that it was black instead of red, and they put the shirt aside to test whose blood it was. When they cut his pants off, they stank of urine, and Melissa felt ill. She saw this in emergency cases often; people so terrified that they wet themselves. But she wondered whether it had been something else, in this case. He had obviously been restrained. Perhaps he hadn’t been allowed to use a toilet.

The thought sickened her. How dare anyone do this to such a good man.

They found more bruising on his body, but nothing extensive. Whoever had beaten him had focused their efforts on his face.

He was unresponsive. His pupils reacted normally to light, but they couldn’t get his eyes to focus on anything. A brain scan showed no damage further than a concussion, and Melissa had to admit that she didn’t know what they were dealing with, because it certainly wasn’t dementia. It could’ve just been shock, catatonia, but maybe it was something more- maybe this was a supernatural thing.

They cleaned him up, dressed him, and set him up with a heart monitor, an IV, and an oxygen mask. As she taped a hospital band around his wrist, she slid her fingers around his forearm and gripped lightly.

“Deputy? Can you hear me?”

Dozens of nurses and doctors had been saying the same thing, and he hadn’t responded. But she found herself hoping, desperately, that he might wake up.

“Deputy Parrish?”

He didn’t move, and she held onto his arm for a while longer, bowing her head in the same way she did when a patient died.

Her phone _ping_ ed, and she took it out of her pocket. The text, from Scott, read, _is he ok?_

She wished she could lie. _No. Unresponsive._

 _dementia?,_ he wrote.

_According to the brain scans, nothing but a concussion. Either in shock, or something else._

_you need to get the sheriff in the same room as him. the only way to fix him. theyre connected now_

That was alarming. _The Sheriff’s sedated. It won’t wear off until morning._

Scott didn’t reply for a long while.

_as soon as you can. might save his life._

She pocketed her phone, and stood looking at Parrish for a few, quiet, moments. She wouldn’t be able to wake the Sheriff up, with the strength of the sedatives he’d been given. They’d have to wait until morning.

She wasn’t the type to believe in god.

But she prayed Parrish would make it.


	14. Chapter 14

LIAM DUNBAR

 

He waited by the front of the animal clinic, behind the swinging wooden gate that separated the counter and the waiting area. He knew there was a magical barrier there, but it didn’t satisfy him. He wanted to be out there, doing what he did best.

Why he’d agreed to be the distraction, he’d never know.

Lydia and Deaton were hiding in the back of the shop, trying to keep as quiet as possible. Lydia hadn’t gone all wide-eyed and psychic-y, so that was nice, because Liam didn’t want to die today. And he didn’t want Kira to die today either.

He smelled the beta before they arrived; it was sharp scent, an angry one. A dirty one. Full of unpolished rage and unfiltered fury. As much as that should’ve scared him, Liam wasn’t afraid- in fact, he was encouraged. He knew how to control his emotion, since Scott had taught him; he was stronger, because he had control.

The beta could obviously smell him, too, because a low, threatening growl hit the air. Liam could hear nearing footsteps, and a clawed hand landed on the door. It swung open, and Liam sized him up.

He was big, and moved slowly, with the promise of violence. His eyes were shining, bright blue, and his teeth were out- he had smooth, unbroken brown skin, and Liam was unimpressed. This was a wolf who did not fight other wolves. He was confident only because he had a pack of humans.

“I see the vet has himself a little guard dog.”

Liam snarled.

The blue-eyed beta opened his mouth wide and growled, the sound rumbling through Liam. He bent his knees low, spread his claws wide, and charged- Liam frowned, confused. Surely this beta knew there was a barrier?

Obviously, he didn’t, because he crashed into it at full pace. He was knocked backwards, blinking in shock, so stunned by the impact that his eyes flashed back to brown.

“Wh…?”

Kira stepped through the door, sword held in one hand. The beta, not completely disarmed by running into the barrier, leapt to his feet- Kira twirled her sword, and stepped to the side as he stepped forward. She hooked one foot behind his leg, put a hand on his chest. She pushed with her hand, pulled with her leg, and the beta fell hard onto his back. She was on top of him immediately, her sword embedded in his shoulder.

He cried out, growls turning human in their pain.

“Baka,” she hissed, pulling out her sword, "Yowamushi!”

He reached up, swiped at her face with a clawed hand, but she rolled her head out of the way in a smooth motion, long hair following the movement in a smooth, silky arc. She brought the sword down again, into his other shoulder this time. He howled. She pulled it out, flipped it around, and- to Liam’s shock- used the hilt to hit him so hard he fell unconscious.

She looked up, grinning. Liam blinked.

 _Wow,_ he thought, _I think I’m in love._

 

 

 

DEPUTY AMANDA REDDING

 

Deputy Redding was not having a good night.

Hell, she _liked_ Parrish. Nothing unprofessional, but he had an ass you could bounce a quarter off, and he was nice to boot. Whoever had taken him had left the Sheriff in pretty bad shape, and she didn’t want to see what they’d managed to do to Parrish.

The real question was _why._ But, if she was honest, nothing would’ve surprised her; she’d been in this job for two years now, and that was some kind of record. Most policemen in this town didn’t survive one year, let alone more. Looking at it objectively, a kidnapping and a bit of strangulation was low-key crime. She, after all this time, still had no idea what was going on in Beacon Hills, but it was extreme. If she wasn’t a cop, she’d probably have shrugged at the case and laughed.

At least there wasn’t a massacre. Yet.

Asking _why_ anything happened in this town was like talking to a brick wall. But she was determined that she would find Parrish, and she’d find him alive, damnit. Her partner, Williams, shared her resolve- he also agreed that the Sheriff had been lying about why he’d been at Parrish’s house that night. They’d interviewed Nurse McCall, who had _apparently_ joined them briefly, to give her professional opinion on whatever illness Parrish _apparently_ had. But Redding was almost certain she’d been lying, at least about some of it. She guessed it was a sin of omission more than anything else.

She and Williams were reviewing CCTV footage, because the Sheriff was sedated and mute, and they needed a new lead. DNA from the Sheriff’s house was yet to come back with results, but hopefully they’d find something that gave them a break. Too many freaks and psychos got away with attacking, and killing, cops in this town.

Redding refused to let that happen this time.

“Coffee?” Williams asked, standing.

“You getting tired, Williams?”

“I’m only human, Amanda.”

“Weak-ass.” Redding muttered, leaning on her fist, staring at the screen.

“Just admit you want some.”

“…I’ll take it black.”

He went off, with a chuckle.

She continued watching the footage. She’d been at it for hours; they both had. She teased Williams only because there was a certain level of asshole that women had to maintain, in the police force. She’d have liked to say sexism was dead, but the only way to keep it out of her path, in law enforcement, was to act as much like a man as possible. The Sheriff ran a pretty good office, and he didn’t tolerate shit like that- he’d even been known to kick his Deputies’ asses for being homophobic- but being raised among five brothers had taught her a thing or two about how respect worked with many men. If she had to be a hard-ass to make her job easier, so be it.

Her phone rang.

Tired, overworked, she stared at it for a while before picking it up.

“This is Deputy Redding.”

_“This is Dr King, with Beacon Hills Hospital. Deputy Parrish has just been admitted.”_

 

They went straight to the hospital, and were taken to Parrish’s room. Redding stared at his wide-open eyes with unease.

“Is he… awake, or…?”

Dr King shook her head, blonde hair shimmering slightly under the stark lighting, pulled tight back into a bun. “No. We believe it to be some kind of shock- we’re thinking that the majority of his trauma is psychological. His clothing suggested he was being detained in some extremely undesirable circumstances.”

Redding stepped closer, staring at Parrish’s welt-covered wrists. Williams stared too, and said, “He was restrained?”

“With metal cuffs, yes.” A troubled look crossed Dr King’s face. “What makes us concerned is that he was detained for a relatively short length of time, and wasn’t suspended by these cuffs. The welting indicates he was thrashing around while restrained.”

“Probably while he was being beaten,” Williams muttered. He lifted a hand to wipe at his mouth, stroke his chin; it was a nervous tic he had, when he grew uncomfortable. It made interrogations difficult. Redding was helping coach him through it.

“I imagine it was more than that; his ankles bear the same extreme level of damage. I’d say he was in quite a great deal of pain- agony, even.”

“Alright,” Redding muttered, getting angrier the more she looked at what had been done to Parrish, “Is there anything you can do for him, doc? Any way to wake him up so that we can figure out what kind of,” she paused, “ _person_ took him?”

Dr King smiled sympathetically, as if she’d heard the omitted curse and agreed wholeheartedly. Then her expression sobered, and she said, “He needs to come out of this on his own, I’m afraid. Especially given his catatonia is likely the result of psychological trauma. It’ll likely be a very slow process.”

Redding nodded, sighed. “Right, then. Do what you can for him, hear?” She held out a hand. “We’ll be back to check up on him soon.”

Dr King shook her hand. “Hope you catch that _person,_ ma’am.”

 

 

 

SHERIFF JOHN STILINSKI

 

The second he woke up, the next morning, he knew something was wrong.

His throat pounded, blood pumping hard under the bruising, every breath making him grimace- his head hurt, from sedation and from landing on the floor after being suffocated- his body ached from the beating he’d taken while his assailant tried to subdue him.

But all that was nothing.

There was an _absence._ Where there had before been warmth, a constant and undying sense of where and how Parrish was, there was nothing. A hole in him, a carved gap in his head, and he struggled to sit up. Something was _wrong._

“Sheriff,” Melissa ran into the room, alarmed, “Sheriff, you’ve got to get to Parrish. I don’t know how, but,” she was stuffing clothes, his clothes, into his hands, her movements rushed and worried, “Scott says you can save him.”

“Is he,” the Sheriff rasped, unable to speak much more than that.

Melissa’s eyes were wide with fear- the kind of fear that was professionalised, realistic, but still humane; the fear of a nurse who had seen death before, and would see it again.

“He’s dying, Sheriff.”


	15. Chapter 15

SHERIFF JOHN STILINSKI

 

Walking towards Parrish’s room felt like walking to his death. There was no warm pull, no fire tugging at his limbs and moving him closer, no heat humming against his skin, growing stronger as he neared- nothing. The room sat before him like some vast, empty thing.

Sheriff Stilinski stood in the doorway, and saw Parrish.

He did not glow. He did not shine. He looked up to the ceiling with glassy eyes that saw nothing. He had the skin of a corpse- it was a sickly yellow, almost translucent. The bruises were purple and green and black. His lips, no longer shapely and smooth, were bloated with a scabbing cut, swollen in a painful line that stretched down to the top of his chin.

The Sheriff sat, terrified by the emptiness in front of him.

A dead body.

He lifted his arms, rested his elbows on the edge of the bed, and had to force his hands to move forward, had to _make_ his fingers fold around Parrish’s limp hand.

Nothing happened.

The warmth did not erupt, like a flame, like the hot touch of sun. Parrish’s hand was cold, damp with sweat, and his fingers were limp.

The Sheriff felt tears rise to his eyes, stabs of bruised pain when a sob threatened his throat. He gripped Parrish’s hand, but it still felt like clutching air; there was nothing beneath his skin. Parrish’s mind was empty. Hollowed out. The Sheriff held on with all his might, lowered his head, closed his eyes.

_I should’ve come sooner. I should’ve... if I’d have come sooner, maybe you’d…_

_…You saved my son. You gave him his life back. I’ll do anything for you, anything you want, just wake up. Wake up, and I promise, I’ll never let you get hurt again. You saved my son. You saved me. You’re selfless. You’re a good man. You’re- You’re better than a good man. You’re…_

He felt it. A spark.

He looked up. Parrish hadn’t moved, but he felt it.

_…Can you hear me?_

He felt it again. A swell of heat, erupting where his fingers pressed against Parrish’s skin. It faded, but his heart was beginning to pound, hammer against his ribcage. He shifted closer to the bed, slid one arm up to grip above Parrish’s elbow- he could feel it, the heat, weakly pulsing through muscles, tendons, nerves. It pulsed, disappeared. Pulsed, disappeared. Like a heartbeat.

_I’m here. I’m here. I promise I won’t leave. Just look at me._

He felt Parrish’s hand twitch, his fingers flex.

_That’s it. That’s it._

Parrish’s eyelids fluttered. His mouth, blurred by the oxygen mask, opened, a breath clouding the plastic. The Sheriff stood, leaning over him. He slid a hand onto Parrish’s chest, palm flat, held over his heart. Parrish looked past him, through him.

_Look at me. Just look at me._

The heat began to burn. A noise, the hitched end of a breath, hit the air, and Parrish was looking at him- his eyes, hazel, widened, and blinked.

The Sheriff felt a wide, stupidly relieved, smile rise to his face.

_Parrish._

The fire was between them, surging through every limb and every artery, weaving through their bodies, until they were connected, the Sheriff’s hand on Parrish’s heart, a small sun  glowing warm in their blood. They were overcome. They were together, now, and they knew it would always be this way. They knew it was stronger than love, stronger than the bite of a werewolf, stronger than the screams of a Banshee.

The Sheriff laughed, finding a peace he hadn’t known since his wedding night, before it had all gone horribly, terribly wrong. Before the loss and the pain and the death. Parrish reached up to touch his cheek. The Sheriff held his hand there, and his touch seeped down his arm, pooling in his wrist, burning away the pain. They looked at one another, and found a home in each other’s eyes.

They stayed like that for a long time.

 

 

EPILOGUE

 

 

DEPUTY AMANDA REDDING

 

She’d heard the Sheriff would be awake this morning. Apparently, he’d gone walkabout, so she’d gone to Parrish’s room to see whether he was there.

The reason for his staying with Parrish was now abundantly clear. She stood, smiling at what she was seeing, for as long as she dared. It was a private moment, that was more than obvious. Feeling oddly satisfied, she turned to go- Nurse McCall was standing behind her, also looking into the room, with an expression of immense relief on her face.

“This is why you were lying, right?” Redding jerked her thumb in the direction of the room, grinning. “You were covering for them.”

Nurse McCall’s smile faded. “There’s nothing wrong with it, Deputy. I suggest you take your bigotry somewhere else.”

Redding laughed. “You’ve got it wrong, miss McCall. I’ve got no problem with who the Sheriff sees- Deputy, man, woman, who cares. All I care about is solving this case. So, next time I speak to you, no more lies, alright? No bigotry here.”

Nurse McCall nodded. “Sure thing, Deputy.”

Redding nodded her thanks, and walked away, feeling satisfied that she finally knew the truth.

 


End file.
